


Something Good

by Iliad06



Series: Something Good [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, First Night, First Time, M/M, Master/Slave, Oral Sex, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-19 05:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9420041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iliad06/pseuds/Iliad06
Summary: Prince Laurent warned him. After looking at the dark burns across his thigh with an upturned lip, the prince told Erasmus to be brave and something good might come of it.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> After reading the first book, I fell in love with Erasmus/Torveld and wanted to give them both a happy ending! I drafted this story before reading Prince's Gambit so the timeline does not match the books. I hope you enjoy reading it. The story is 12 chapters and I plan to post a new chapter every Sunday, Wednesday, and Friday until it's all complete.
> 
> Note: First two things Torveld says are directly from Captive Prince.

Prince Laurent warned him. After looking at the dark burns across his thigh with an upturned lip, the prince told Erasmus to be brave and something good might come of it. Might was more than he had dared to hope for after that night in the gardens with the prince’s dark slave. 

Might is hard to hold onto when he’s wrenched onto the stage, closer to the dancing flames twirled by the auburn haired slave. Erasmus sinks to his knees, trying to assume the submissive posture from his training. The flames dance closer. His thigh burns hot in three long lines, a sharp contrast to the icy fear that swells in his chest. His limbs shake and he can’t relax fully into a posture he has taken a million times. Habit tells him to submit and trust but instinct tells him not to reveal the expanse of his back to the scalding heat. The two sides rage against one another until Erasmus is left kneeling, half bent, and shuddering in his indecisiveness.

There’s a loud rushing in his ears, overpowering the sound of voices coming from the table. A gruff voice sounds through. “—showing form at all. He can’t even sit still—” Shame flushes hot through Erasmus’s chest. The voice is right. He is a disgrace to his training. What would Kallias say?

 _Be brave._ Prince Laurent’s words cut through the chaos of his fear. Erasmus pushes thoughts of his past away and forces his limbs to cooperate, sinking lower into his form. It isn’t perfect, but it is better. The heat brushes across his back and his whole body jerks with his flinch. He bites his lip against a whimper and the bile that splashes up his throat. 

“—fire put out,” says the voice from before. The heat leaves abruptly, although sweat still sticks to his skin and smoke fills his nose. The next few moments are a blur. The man with the low voice calls him forward to ask questions. Erasmus answers in well-practiced Patran, shy at first but growing more confident under the approving gaze of kind Prince Laurent. 

He keeps his eyes downcast, demure and submissive like he was trained, but still catches a good look at the man talking. Prince Torveld is handsome with brown hair and a trimmed beard that makes him look younger than he probably is, given the subtle streaks of grey that have started to grow. His eyes are a warm brown and his gaze is almost tangible as he looks over Erasmus. His skin grows hot and his pulse hammers against his neck, the same feeling that consumed him when he first saw a guard in the courtyard long ago in Akielos.

Large fingers brush through the curls that have fallen across his forehead. “I would like you by my side for the rest of the night,” Prince Torveld says. 

A warm blush spreads across Erasmus’s cheeks. He opens his mouth to respond but the words won’t come out. He uses his body to answer instead. Erasmus leans forward and presses a soft kiss to a bare toe. Akielon manners would have him stop there; a single kiss to the foot is enough to communicate his pleasure to serve. But Torveld is handsome and Erasmus is hopeful. He turns his head to brush soft tresses against a muscular calf, flirtatious and a little bold, as he skips past the sandal straps and presses his lips against the older man’s ankle. He risks a glance at Torveld’s expression, wary that he has taken liberties, and finds warm approval. Happiness he hasn’t known since Akielos fills his belly.

Might is much easier to hold onto now. Erasmus kneels close to Torveld’s chair in the position he was taught for waiting. His backside rests on his heels, his hands are folded in his lap, and his back is straight. Conversation begins to float around the table as attention is finally turned off of the slave.

Fingertips press against his neck above his collar and Erasmus keeps himself still, even though the touch seems more like a poke than a caress. 

“Your pulse is still quick,” Torveld says softly so as not to allow his voice to drift to the people sitting near him. “Close your eyes and time your breathing with every pass of my hand.” 

Erasmus closes his eyes without hesitation. Torveld’s fingers start at the top of his forehead, run through a mop of light curls, and brush under the curve of his ear. The slave inhales slow and deep as the hand passes through his hair and exhales when it reaches the edge of his ear. The touch is gentle, soothing. Goosebumps rise to meet the fingertips with each pass over bare skin. 

The sound of conversation dulls around him until all he can hear is his own breathing, timed with the soft caress of the prince. The leftover fear that had settled like lead in his belly begins to dissipate. It’s easy to push away all thoughts of shame and fear when he has something else to focus on. His thoughts are reduced to nothing but in and out. He floats on the cusp of relaxation, something he hadn’t thought possible in Vere.

“Open your eyes.” Erasmus follows the order and finds the prince’s eyes close to his own. Two fingers press against his neck like before as Torveld searches his face for something. Erasmus isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but moments later a gentle smile stretches across his lips, making him look younger and more handsome.

“Well done, Erasmus.” His cheeks heat with embarrassment and he ducks his head, eyes trained on his knees. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Torveld wants to say something, but decides against it. His mind sears with curiosity, one characteristic his training had not been able to rid him of, but he bites his tongue against asking.

Torveld turns to Laurent, striking up a light conversation in Veretian that the slave cannot understand, as the final course of the night is served. Erasmus isn’t sure of the last time he ate anything more substantial than an apple or piece of bread, but this meal is not meant for him. He shifts subtly on his knees to provide them relief and lets the sound of laughter and chatter wash over him as he waits.

Tan fingers holding a piece of fruit dripping with honey cross into his vision. He glances up at the prince, who only smiles and gestures that Erasmus should eat. In Akielos, a slave serves his master but in Patras he has heard that masters dote on their slaves. He can feel his cheeks heat slightly as he leans forward and takes the fruit, careful to let his lips barely brush Torveld’s fingertips, a subtle flirtation his training taught him. 

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Around midday, my lord.”

“What did you eat?” he asks as another piece of fruit appears.

“Bread with some butter and honey.”

“And for breakfast?”

“Nothing, sire.” The food comes faster then, small bits of leftover fish from the dinner course, green vegetables that have grown cold, and spiced nuts that remind him of Akielos. Erasmus takes everything he is offered, using only his lips to receive the food, careful not to spill anything or make a mess of the prince’s fingers. 

He gets braver as Torveld continues to feed him, letting his lips linger longer against war-hardened fingers when offered his favorite pieces of fruit. Anxiety eats at the edge of his mind at his boldness, worried that he is overstepping the lines of coyness and subtlety his trainers stressed. He decides to decline the next morsel and tell Torveld he is full when the prince extends another piece of apricot to him. Torveld’s eyes dance with amusement and it is obvious he figured out what Erasmus was trying to communicate. The slave flashes him a soft smile and uses his tongue to flick against sweetened fingertips as he takes his favorite fruit between his lips.

“I fear I misspoke earlier,” Torveld says as the servants begin to clear away the final course, signaling that negotiations are about to begin. “You are well trained. Your form is exquisite and your submission, beautiful.”

Embarrassment mixed with pleasure flushes hot through the slave’s limbs. He can feel his cheeks flame and his pulse hammer hard against his ribcage. “This slave does not deserve your praise,” he says softly, staring at his lap.

“You have it.” Erasmus glances up at the powerful man next to him as clean fingers bury into his hair again. He can’t help the smile that stretches his lips as happiness flutters in his stomach. Torveld holds his gaze for a moment, smiling, then his eyes take on a sharp edge and he turns with determination to the Regent across the table.

Hope bubbles at the edge of his mind and he allows himself to grasp it for a moment. Maybe Torveld will be successful. Maybe Torveld will take all the Akielon slaves to Patras. Maybe Torveld will want to keep him.

 _Be brave._ He glances at the blonde prince in the chair to his right, expression seemingly bored, although negotiations have only just begun.

Erasmus is satiated and pleased, two things he didn’t think possible since he first faced the horrors of Vere all those weeks ago. He allows himself to bask in the feelings and the gentle caress of fingers shifting through his hair.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The POV is going to switch between Erasmus and Torveld throughout the story. This chapter is from Torveld's POV.

Negotiations with Vere are always a complicated twist of said and unsaid that take longer than they should. It is hard to concentrate, especially with a pretty slave kneeling by his side, but Torveld needs to concentrate more than ever. His brother, King Torgeir, appointed him as the ambassador of Vere, not out of some sense of loyalty, but because Veretian politics are a maze of thrusts, parries, and stealth that Torveld’s sharp mind can excel in. Much like strategy in the North, Torveld approaches this battle with a plan of defend, pivot, and attack. 

The negotiations take two hours. The slave by his side shifts only once, in the subtle gesture he is trained to use to allow his knees a moment of relief, before he settles back into his perfect form. That Torveld could ever believe this slave was not a palace slave seems preposterous. The reason why, the threatening fire that turned the slave white and made his limbs tremble, springs into Torveld’s mind and he dives into negotiations with renewed vigor, anger hot in his chest but cool in his expression.

Finally, negotiations are done, quills and ink passed, and papers signed anew. All twenty-four Akielon slaves will return with Torveld to Patras in two days’ time.

Torveld rises from his chair and crosses the room to embrace the Regent in the customary cheek kiss to finalize contracts in Vere. With that, negotiations are over and he is free to retire to his bedchamber. Normally, Torveld would linger to converse with members of the court but tonight there are more important things to attend.

“Please excuse me for the night, my lord,” he says to the Regent with a short bow. “The Akielon slaves need my attention.”

The Regent waves him off and Torveld makes his way out of the room with the determined stride of a man with a purpose, warding off any would-be small talkers. Soft steps trail behind him, alerting him to the light-haired slave that follows him the customary two steps behind. He motions for his servant, Alaric, and the younger man falls in step beside him as he exits the large hall.

“I need you to locate and gather the slaves from Akielos,” he says in Patran for the slave’s benefit. It is doubtful that Erasmus knows how to speak Veretian and therefore would not have understood any of the negotiations. “They will be returning to Patras with us.”

“Yes, sire.”

“See to it that they are fed, bathed, and have any wounds tended to.” He stops and faces Alaric in the hallway. “These slaves have faced atrocities they never believed possible of their masters. Tread lightly and treat them with kindness.”

“Yes, sire.” Alaric bobs his head. His gaze shifts to a spot over Torveld’s left shoulder and the prince knows what he is going to ask before he has a chance to.

“Erasmus will accompany me tonight. You need only see to the other slaves.”

Alaric bows low and departs, heading for the palace gardens. 

Torveld turns to face Erasmus, who stands a few feet away, head bowed and hands clasped behind his back. His curls fall forward into his face and Torveld cannot resist the urge to brush them back, delighting in the faint blush that stretches across pale skin. 

“Come Erasmus,” he murmurs, “Let’s retire for the night.”

The palace is a maze of hallways, arches, and inner gardens. Torveld leads the way through the memorized twists and turns until he comes to the apartment set aside for his use. The apartment is lavish, decorated in exaggerated, Vere fashion. There is an antechamber with stuffed pillows, chairs, and two doors: one connects to a bedchamber and the other to a small, but private, bath. It’s a relief to enter the room and be able to close the door against tiring Veretian politics and subtleties. 

Finally, he is able to turn his complete attention onto the slave that knelt gracefully at his feet throughout negotiations. Erasmus stands close, hands clasped in front this time and eyes downcast. A fine tremble makes it way up the path of his spine, so small only Torveld’s sharp gaze could notice. It strikes him then that although he has shown the slave kindness, other courtiers may have as well, if only to make whatever sick test they came up with more entertaining. The slave has no reason to trust that he will not hurt him. He aches to gather Erasmus in his arms and calm him, but that may be too bold. Instead, the slave needs something to focus on, much like he focused on his hand to calm his breathing at dinner. A task.

“The bath is through that door. As much as I would like to have a full bath with you,” Erasmus blushes at that and Torveld has to force himself to keep talking instead of pressing the slave against the wall with his body, “the hour is late and we both need sleep. Please draw a bucket of water and set out the soap. I will be in shortly.”

Erasmus goes to task and Torveld takes the moment of privacy to summon a palace servant and pass a message onto Laurent. He needs to know the extent of Erasmus’s training and subsequent abuse before he can be a good master.

The older man enters the bath to find Erasmus kneeling, forehead pressed to the floor, with a steaming bucket and a bar of soap next to him. His posture is no longer the farce of submission from the night’s earlier entertainment. He is perfect and if Torveld had to estimate, he would wager that Erasmus had been near the end of his training when he was taken from Akielos.

Instinct urges him to order the slave to forget formalities in his own room, a practice he has with any slave who has spent more than a night warming his bed. But Erasmus needs familiarity in a place so different from his own world. When they are in Patras, when Erasmus is settled, Torveld will work to move the slave from constant submission. For now, familiarity is a comfort, and to deny him for his own peculiarities would be cruel.

“Rise, Erasmus,” he says softly. Erasmus moves with liquid grace as he unfolds to stand before Torveld, bucket and soap in hand. 

“Shall I undress you, sire?” The pretty blush is back and Torveld would like to think his voice has taken on a higher lilt of hope, but he needs to concentrate on what Erasmus needs tonight, not what his own body may crave.

He shakes his head and takes the bucket and soap. “Sit please,” he gestures to the wooden table that typically holds the bucket in his hand and other washing supplies. If Erasmus thinks the order strange, he does not show it and pulls himself onto the surface, feet dangling off the side. He’s careful in his movements to keep the hem of his clothing from shifting up his thigh.

Torveld sets the steaming bucket and soap next to the slave. “Let me see your wounds.”

The slender fingers that had been fiddling nervously with the edge of Erasmus’s tunic, clench at the bottom now. His chin drops to his chest as a blush stains his cheeks, mottled and not the faint coloring of before. His eyes stare hard at his hand.

Torveld is a patient man. The hesitation to fulfill his order does not strike him as a personal blow like it may a younger master. He waits as the slave seems to battle himself. 

“I am ashamed,” the younger man whispers.

“Show me.” 

Erasmus clenches his eyes shut tight, turns his head away, and pulls the hem of his clothing up to reveal beautiful, milky thighs, one marred and the other pristine. Two long scars run from just above his knee to the top of his outer thigh, crossed by a third long scar bent in the opposite direction. If the first two did not make the slave cry out, the third being laid against already burned skin would have. Rage like the kind Torveld has not felt since the battle in the North clenches tight in his chest and punches the air from his body.

“Tell me.” 

Erasmus bites his lip and his gaze jumps from object to object in the room, looking anywhere but at Torveld and his thigh. Torveld lifts a hand to cup the slave’s jaw and gently pulls the abused lip away from his teeth, running the pad of his thumb over the plump skin. Erasmus meets his gaze with wary honey eyes as the ugly blush of shame is replaced by the pretty one of shyness Torveld already craves.

“Tell me what they did to you.” 

The slave seems to summon his courage and tells the story of a sick game disguised as a test. Hot anger flares in Torveld’s limbs, but he forces himself to calm and focus on the task at hand. As Erasmus relays the few details of his burns, Torveld takes a soft bathing cloth and dunks it into the hot water. He washes Erasmus’s thigh, careful not to disturb the healing skin. The burns are mostly healed and scarring but the skin is tender and pink at the edges, sign that infection may have delayed the process.

“I failed,” Erasmus finishes his story with a soft murmur.

“No, your masters failed you by allowing you to be subjected to this.”

The comment makes Erasmus uneasy and Torveld curses himself for allowing such strong conviction into his voice. 

“You were brave. There is no shame in that.”

“Damen said something similar.”

“Then Damen is smart.” Torveld smiles warmly and Erasmus returns it with a small smile of his own. “Wait here.”

Torveld leaves the room to rummage through his things and returns with a small jar in hand to find the hem of Erasmus’s clothing pulled down over his thigh again. He fights the urge to assure him he’s beautiful, scars and all. Such comments would only brush over Erasmus at this point, not help him. Instead he steps forward and grasps the hem.

“May I?”

The slave’s eyes widen and Torveld can practically see his pulse flutter against his neck in surprise.

“Th-this slave is yours,” he states, stumbling for the first time over his Patran words. His surprise is endearing and Torveld would chuckle if he knew the sound would be taken the right way.

“Yes,” he says with a certainty that makes Erasmus blush, “but this slave has also had very little choice as of late.”

Erasmus thinks on that for a moment then drops his head in a subtle nod and Torveld smiles. He lifts the hem up to expose the long scars while he opens the jar he had retrieved earlier.

“This paste helps with healing, wards infection, and prevents scarring.” He takes a dollop onto his fingers and spreads it gently over one scar and then the next, precise and careful to cover the entirety in a smooth layer. “I will put it on you morning and night until your wounds are fully healed. If I am indisposed for any reason, I want you to do it yourself.”

Erasmus is silent for a moment, watching closely as tan fingers trace along his pale skin as if he needs to learn how to apply paste.

“You are too kind to this slave,” he murmurs finally, eyes still trained on his scars, shiny with paste.

“Something else you seem to have had little of in recent times.” He works slowly on the final scar, the deepest one, to rub the paste into the skin a little more, hoping to promote healing. “I must ask you something and it will be unpleasant.”

When Erasmus only looks up at him, he barrels forward. “Are you torn?” He gestures to the slave’s body, hoping that Erasmus will grasp his meaning. He does not want to have to revert to Veretian crudeness. 

Tears spring to Erasmus’s honey eyes and threaten to spill over flaming cheeks. He opens his mouth to answer, but the way his body tenses, wracked with evident shame, is answer enough. Torveld does not stop to think. Instinct forces him to gather the slave into his arms and run gentle fingertips over the smooth expanse of his trembling back, soothing him with whispered words. Erasmus clenches at his tunic and buries his face into Torveld’s broad shoulder. 

“I am sorry,” Erasmus mutters against his neck but Torveld shushes him.

“Your masters have failed you in more ways than one.” He continues to brush his hands up and down the almost-blonde’s soft skin until the trembling subsides and Erasmus is quiet in the circle of his arms. “I want you to wash and then apply this cream to the entrance of your body. It may sting, but it will heal you.”

Erasmus nods. Torveld presses the jar into the slave’s hand and leaves the room. He yearns to take care of Erasmus, to wash him and apply the salve that will help, but Erasmus has been hurt. He does not need a master’s hand to touch an intimate place that has been disregarded as his own for too long. 

Alaric brings news of the other Akielon slaves while Torveld is alone. They have all been bathed, fed, and treated for superficial wounds. Alaric even summoned a Veretian physician to check for any lingering internal damage for one of the female slaves with bruising on her stomach. His insight into what needs to be done past his orders is the reason he is Torveld’s most trusted servant and has been at his side for more than a decade. The prince bids him to retire for the night with orders to see to the slaves in the morning and serve as their handler until they arrive in Patras.

Relief washes through Torveld and he is able to turn to his full attention to his own Akielon slave, knowing the others are in Alaric’s capable hands. He makes his way into the bedchamber, mind consumed only with thoughts of soft sheets and soft skin against his.

Erasmus stands at the foot of the bed, completely nude, and the sight makes Torveld halt mid-step. If he thought the slave was very pretty before, he was unaware of how beautiful he actually is. Long, lean legs lead to slightly curved hips, a slim waist, and smooth chest. Only the gaudy gold on his wrists and neck break up the expanse of milky white skin. 

Nudity is common amongst the people of Akielos, especially during the summer months, and is not inherently sexual. The way that Erasmus stands, legs slightly spread and back curved in a way to accentuate his body’s natural curves, is. 

“Erasmus?” he asks in a gentle voice. 

“This slave wishes to serve you.” His face brightens with a blush and it is then that Torveld notices the slight trembling in his fingers, held loosely at his sides. Erasmus has been abused and if Torveld wants to earn the slave’s trust, he will need to tread carefully. A younger master would take Erasmus without question, but the prince has seen too many slaves disregarded as nothing more than objects of their master’s pleasure. He will not do that to sweet Erasmus.

Lost in his decision of how to proceed, he takes too long to respond. Erasmus crosses the room with graceful strides until he stands before Torveld.

“Shall I attend you, sire?” The voice has the hopeful lilt from before and Torveld grants his permission with a firm nod of his head. In Akielos, any service honors the slave and Torveld does not want to harm Erasmus by denying him. 

Slim fingers start at the shoulder of his tunic, loosening the clasps and pushing the material off his arms to reveal a chest with a light smattering of dark hair. Erasmus’s eyes seem to light up with curiosity, faced with a chest firm with muscle and so different from his own, but his training does not allow him to linger. He unties the thin belt around Torveld’s waist. The material billows out and slips to the floor, revealing the expanse of the prince’s body, but again Erasmus’s eyes only take in details quickly before he moves on to the next task. 

“Leave it,” Torveld says softly as Erasmus reaches to gather the clothing to fold. He nods and drops to his knees, un-strapping the sandals with quick fingers and helping Torveld step out of one and then the other.

The prince expects him to stand, but Erasmus settles back on his ankles and his gaze falls on the cock nestled in dark curls a mere foot from his face. A pink tongue darts out to wet his lips and the flush stretches across his cheeks again.

“Shall I service you, sire?”

“No.” Torveld’s voice is low and rough. 

It is the wrong thing to say. Erasmus’s drops his chin to his chest and his fingers clench hard at his marred thigh. Torveld can only guess what he is thinking. He drops to his knees and grasps thin shoulders until Erasmus glances up at him and then back down, rejection clear in his expression.

“Do not misunderstand me, Erasmus. You have done nothing wrong. I only wish to give you time to heal.”

Erasmus bites his lip. Emotions flicker across his face, warring between relief and shame. 

“I wish to serve you,” he says finally, voice timid. It’s a learned line, void of meaning.

“Then do so by healing.” He reaches up to brush blonde curls out of Erasmus’s eyes. “You are welcome in my bed tonight, for sleep. A full night’s rest will be good for both of us.”

The tension wound tight in Erasmus’s shoulders seems to melt away underneath Torveld’s fingertips. Out of the corner of his eye, the older man sees fingers relax against scarred skin.

“This slave does not deserve your kindness,” he murmurs, eyes downcast. Torveld grasps his chin and tilts his head up until Erasmus meets his gaze with hesitant eyes.

“You deserve more than you have been given.” The insult to Erasmus’s previous masters makes the slave uneasy, but Torveld shakes his head to ward off any protest, not that he thinks Erasmus would voice any dissention. 

Torveld helps Erasmus onto his feet and ushers him into the large bed. The prince climbs into the bed, after dousing the candles, and pulls the thin summer blankets over top of the pair. They both shift to get comfortable and silence settles between them. Moonlight peaks through the curtains and bathes Erasmus in a cool, silver light. He looks ethereal, long limbs and golden hair a sharp contrast to the dark sheets. A part of Torveld regrets saying the bed would only be used for sleep, but the memory of hot tears against his shoulder bolsters his decision. There will be time for him to enjoy Erasmus, when Erasmus can enjoy it too.

He’s not delusional. He realizes that Erasmus has little choice in going with him and warming his bed, but he hopes to widen the scope of his choices when they return to Patras. Torveld appreciates the training of Akielon slaves, their forms and subtle flirtations, but dislikes their mindless submission. He wants a slave that yearns to please, but still thinks and wants for himself. Erasmus seems very submissive, but his own bravery in the face of the fire and the way he seems to consider what Torveld says, weighing the words in his mind, hints to Torveld that he may be able to stand up for himself one day. That day is far away, but Torveld can only hope.

He reaches a hand across the expanse of sheets and finds warms skin and a jutting hipbone. Erasmus flinches and then calms, relaxed under the wandering fingers.

“My lord?” The soft question drifts through the darkness and Torveld smiles.

“I wish to hold you.” 

Erasmus answers, as he seems to prefer, with action rather than words. He scoots across the soft sheets and presses into Torveld’s embrace. The prince wraps his arms around the supple body, hands resting on a hipbone and low on his back, although not low enough to frighten him. Erasmus tucks his face into space between Torveld’s neck and shoulder and brings his hands up to run fingers over Torveld’s chest. 

A happy hum comes from the slave and Torveld chuckles, low and pleased. He brushes his fingers from the soft dip of Erasmus’s waist and over the curve of his hip, continuing the rhythmic caress until the slave’s breathing evens out and sleep relaxes his limbs.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erasmus's POV and then Torveld's. This is the only time it will change within a chapter, I believe.

Warm limbs unwrap from his body and the mattress dips, jolting Erasmus from his sleep. When he was younger, Erasmus could sleep through the other slaves moving about the room and even once slept through Kallias calling his name until he jumped on the bed. In Vere, that changed. The slightest noise threw the blonde into awareness.

He keeps his eyes closed and listens as Torveld moves around the room, not wanting the older man to know that he’s awake. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Torveld; he has been nothing but kind and patient. It just strikes him as strange that a knock would summon the prince at such an odd hour of the night. His curiosity has gotten the better of him and he wants to listen in, even if he knows he shouldn’t. The late night conversations of his prince are none of his business.

Decision made, he feigns sleep and listens as Damen, the slave that helped the hopeless promise come true, and his master talk first about his experience and then about Akielos. A heavy feeling settles into his stomach. His heart throbs with every detail of his home and worry for Kallias scratches at his insides. Unconsciously, his fingers tug at his lower lip, the last point of contact he had made with his lifelong friend. He forces himself to stop fidgeting and lie still instead. The memory of fingers running through his hair and around his ear floats to the top of his mind and he matches his breathing with the ghost touches. It calms his mind and slows his breathing, like it did after his performance.

In moments, the bed dips and strong arms wrap around his body again. The embrace is a comfort and he nuzzles into the warm chest before he thinks about the action. The arms around him tense and Erasmus knows he is caught.

“I’m sorry,” he says. If they were not lying down, he would supplicate, face pressed to the floor and arms spread out, defenseless and open to punishment.

“How much did you hear?”

His silence is answer enough. He expects Torveld to scold him or cast him from his bed, but the man continues to surprise him with every action. Fingertips run over the knobs of his spine and he shudders as small bumps rise on the caressed flesh.

“No matter. Sleep, Erasmus.” 

His master is too kind.

The heavy feeling that settled into his stomach at the start of the hushed conversation worsens until he feels he has swallowed lead. He was taught that a master should honor a slave as a slave honors their master, but Erasmus has done nothing to deserve the honor Torveld has shown him. Calming him at dinner, feeding him his favorite fruits, treating his wounds, and then denying the one way Erasmus could think to pay him back, a willing mouth for the prince’s pleasure.

Worry sours his stomach and then bubbles out of his lips before he can stop it.

“This slave is tainted.” Thoughtful, handsome, kind Torveld deserves an untouched slave, a slave still yearning for their First Night, a better slave than him. 

“Never.” The prince’s voice is solid and leaves no room for explanation or argument. 

Torveld’s fingers grip onto his skin and pull him closer. Erasmus whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t deserve the gentle kisses that press against his brow or the fingertips that dip beneath his chin to tilt his head back. Torveld deserves better. Lips press against his in a firm kiss, only the second kiss of his life. Training and years of watching other lovers have Erasmus opening his mouth to emit the prince further, even if he knows he is undeserving. Torveld’s mouth moves expertly and Erasmus tries to copy what he’s seen, flicking his tongue gently against the older man’s. 

The arms around him tighten and in a quick movement Torveld flips Erasmus onto his back and boxes him in with sturdy limbs. He’s overwhelmed by the strength of the man above him. Thoughts of deservedness vanish and he spreads his legs instinctually. His prince can take his pleasure if he so chooses. 

Lips move from his and trail a line down his neck, stopping to suck lightly above his pulse point. Pleasure sparks in Erasmus’s stomach and he can’t help the gasps and whimpers that pour one after the other from his mouth.

“S-sire,” he moans as a thumb brushes a peaked nipple.

Torveld pulls away and Erasmus is so dizzy with pleasure, he tries to tug the prince back in with arms around his neck, making demands not permitted to a slave. Torveld chuckles and the sound sends shivers up Erasmus’s spine.

“When we are alone,” says Torveld, eyes imploring, “especially when we are in bed, I want you to call me by my name, not my titles.”

“Yes, si-Torveld.” Erasmus stumbles a little over the name and Torveld smiles down at him, gaze warm and indulgent.

“As much as I would love to continue this,” he nips the hinge of Erasmus’s jaw and the slave gasps, “the hour is late and we both need sleep.”

Torveld moves off of Erasmus, but the slave follows him, cuddling close to his chest. Torveld may deserve better, but for now, he has chosen Erasmus and he is going to enjoy the handsome, older man for as long as he can.

***  
The day begins before dawn, the only time to start a proper boar hunt Torveld insists. As the pair starts to dress for the day, Torveld presents Erasmus with a Patran style tunic. The tunic is light and accentuates his lean arms and legs without showing the scars beneath, a detail he thinks the slave will appreciate. Erasmus surprises them both by leaning up on tiptoes to press a kiss of gratitude to his cheek. The slave seems to realize his boldness and drops his head to apologize, but Torveld merely smiles and turns his head to press a real kiss to his lips.

The pair is the last to arrive to the hunting group, Erasmus’s hair mussed more than usual.

Although Torveld knows Erasmus was trained to be the slave of a prince, seeing the training come forth is breathtaking. The slave moves with a nimble, unobtrusive grace as he serves Torveld’s lunch and he arranges Torveld’s leather with sure fingers and quick hands. 

“Good luck, Torveld,” the young man says softly as he ties the last two laces together. The use of his name makes the prince smile and he can’t resist pushing light curls out of the way and pressing a kiss to a pale forehead.

The hunt is thrilling, although Torveld cannot seem to enjoy it as he usually does. Thoughts of soft skin and a responsive body distract him from his usual one-minded tracking. He still spots the boar first, but once it is obvious Laurent intends to make the mark at the expense of his own horse, Torveld lessens his pace and pulls himself out of the contest, hoping the prince will notice and also decrease his thundering gallop. No such luck. Prince Laurent slews the boar and his own horse and Torveld winces at the Regent’s continued nattering as the hunt makes its way to the tents.

After a hunt, Torveld thrums with energy and usually calls on a palace slave to tumble in the sheets with him and work the energy out. Today is no different. The thrill of the hunt dances along his skin and invigorates him, but he wishes only to seek out Erasmus and indulge in enthusiastic kissing. He will need to be careful to hold back in his indulgence, not allowing his hands to wander any more than they did the night before. Perhaps the next time he hunts, Erasmus will be healed.

He enters the royal tent a few steps ahead of the Regent and Laurent, wishing to rid himself of their bickering. He expects to find Erasmus there, perhaps napping on a stuffed pillow or snacking on the fruit laid out for the slaves. Erasmus is nowhere to be found and his eyes settle on the large form of Damen, relaxing in a heap of pillows, bulky and out of place.

“Where is Erasmus?”

“He’s waiting in your tent.” The idea sends a warm thrill through his stomach and he leaves Damen with a short warning about Prince Laurent’s mood as his thanks.

Erasmus is in fact in his tent, kneeling on a green pillow with a bucket and cloth set beside him. The slave smiles and bows low when Torveld closes the flap of the tent behind him.

“Welcome back, my lord,” he says. Torveld raises a brow and Erasmus blushes and corrects himself. “Torveld.”

“Am I in time to treat your wounds?” he asks, gesturing to the supplies Erasmus has pulled out. 

Erasmus chews his lip. “Yes, but…“

“But?”

“These supplies are for you.” Torveld raises an eyebrow and a soft flush blooms on Erasmus’s cheeks as he opens his mouth to explain. “This slave would like to wash and massage you. You must be sore after a long hunt.”

Drawing a bath for his master after a day of riding must be part of Erasmus’s training, but that does not stop Torveld from feeling warm at the consideration from his slave. 

“I would like that.” 

The gentle blush that Torveld has been thinking of all day is back. Erasmus makes quick work of his leathers and clothing, leaving only a soft pair of cotton pants on his body. 

“If we were at the palace, I would draw a full bath for you.” The blush reddens and Erasmus ducks his head, embarrassed by his own forwardness. Torveld chuckles and taps a knuckle beneath the young man’s chin until honey eyes meet his.

“You do not have to be ashamed of your thoughts.” He wants to push further, to convince Erasmus to voice more, but it is only their first true day together and years of training will have told Erasmus otherwise. Still, the slave’s tendency to voice his minor wishes and thoughts are a good sign.

Erasmus leads him over to the large cushion he had been kneeling on before. Torveld collapses onto the soft surface with a groan as his muscles protest the movement. He is already sore and tomorrow is bound to be worse.

“Will you tell me of the hunt?” Erasmus asks as he dips the cloth into the steaming bucket of water. Torveld recounts the story as Erasmus bathes him. The young man kneels between his outstretched legs and runs the cloth over his neck and chest, pausing only to dunk the cloth into the bucket. The water runs in warm streams down his skin, but Erasmus is quick to swipe the excess away before it can soak into the top of his pants.

While the light-haired man works, Torveld lets his eyes wander. The Patran tunic suits Erasmus and Torveld delights in seeing him wear the clothing of his region, an affirmation that the slave will accompany him home tomorrow. His arms are lightly muscled, still thin and lean as desired in a palace slave, but hint at a secret strength. The edge of the tunic rises up as he bends forward to work, showing the edges of his wounds and soft skin that Torveld aches to know the touch of against his hips. 

He pushes that thought from his mind and watches Erasmus’s face as he works. He’s very pretty, a fact he could see from his place at the table when Erasmus was jerked onto the dais the night before. This close, his features are beautiful. His eyes are large and sit amongst sharp cheekbones, thin brows, and a small, aristocratic nose. His lips are full and a soft pink color, untouched by paint. 

Torveld grazes his thumb against the plump bottom lip and Erasmus pauses. The blush returns, warming his cheeks to a lively pink.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. The slave jumps at the comment, eyes wide and face bright with his surprise and embarrassment. The blush extends to his neck and disappears beneath his tunic. Torveld yearns to see where it ends.

“Torveld?” 

“Will you sing for me?” he asks, pulling his hand away and motioning for Erasmus to continue his bath. 

“I know only one Patran song.” 

Torveld nods for him to continue and Erasmus begins to sing. His voice is light and soft, a perfect match to his gentle disposition and nymph-like features. The song recounts the First War and the building of Bazal, a historic melody any Patran could sing. But no Patran could make it sound as beautiful as Erasmus. The timing is off, a little slower with notes held a little longer than usual, but Torveld finds it to be more pleasing this way.

Erasmus finishes washing his back and sets the bucket and cloth aside, reaching for the small bottle of oil. Soft hands that have not known a day’s hard labor run over the expanse of his back, smoothing oil across the skin and seeking out knots. Fingers begin to press and rub, working out the kinks with skillful motions that make Torveld groan. 

He finishes the song with a final drawn out note that tapers off into a soft hum. 

“Shall I sing it again?”

The older man shakes his head. His thoughts are muddled and slow. The oil smells of lavender, a scent used in baths to promote muscle relaxation. He practically melts beneath Erasmus’s skilled fingers as they grip and roll his shoulders, submitting himself to the care of the slave. The energy from the hunt has dissipated, leaving Torveld feeling lethargic and content.

The massage is over soon and Erasmus kneels before him, having rubbed oil into his pectoral muscles last. Torveld cups the young man’s jaw and runs the pad of his thumb over a sharp cheekbone.

“I would like to take care of your thigh now.”


	4. Chapter Four

They switch spots, the slave moving to sit on the soft cushion while Torveld kneels between his spread legs. His master sits near enough for Erasmus to feel the warmth of his body against his thighs, but not so close that their bodies touch. It’s intimate, and the slave can feel his cheeks warm as Torveld’s fingers push the hem of his tunic up with his permission.

The fabric reveals the length of both of his legs, one smooth and the other ugly and riddled with scars. Erasmus wonders for a moment if Torveld pushed the fabric up on both sides so he could see more of his skin, instead of just focusing on the one thigh that needs his attention. The way Torveld’s brown eyes flash give his desires away, but to question his master’s motivation is none of his business. If Torveld wants to look at his legs, he has the right.

“I had a thought,” Torveld says as he dips the cloth into the bucket of water. The water is only lukewarm as it drips onto his skin, but Erasmus doesn’t mind. He was happy to bathe his prince and massage him after his hunt. He only wishes he could have treated the kind man to a full bath instead of a bucket of water.

“I would like you to have a First Night.”

The cloth pauses against his skin as brown eyes search his reaction. Shame rushes through his limbs as thoughts and memories of how his First Night isn’t possible flash into his mind: Kallias’s kiss, the men on the ship, Govart in the garden, and a slew of Veretian nobles and pets he didn’t know. His cheeks flame and he squeezes his eyes shut against the hot wave of tears that spring up. He will not shame his master by crying again.

“This slave is tainted,” he repeats the phrase from the night before, wishing to convey to his master how tainted he actually is, but he can’t make the words form.

Fingertips brush along his cheek and he opens his eyes to find a concerned gaze leveled at him.

“You have had no choice since leaving Akielos,” Torveld says. “You are not tainted. You were meant for a prince who would have seen to your care and pleasure. What I offer is the same.”

The words brush over Erasmus. First Nights are for slaves who are pure, whose bodies are untouched. His body is touched, ruined, marred. He can’t possibly have a First Night. He thought Torveld knew that but apparently Erasmus needs to make sure he does. He opens his mouth to speak but Torveld continues before he can voice his thoughts.

“Continue to use the paste until you are fully healed. When we settle in Patras, you can have the First Night you were promised.”

A beat of silence, then: “I cannot erase what has been done to you, Erasmus.” Regret is heavy in his voice. “But I can give you the things that you once wished for.”

_Oh…_ Erasmus understands. Torveld is intelligent and has an idea of the cruelty Erasmus faced because of Damen’s words and his own tears from the night before. This isn’t ignorance about what he has gone through; it is a way for him to start fresh in Paras.

His master’s generosity overwhelms him. Shame and elation run through him at once, tying in knots in his stomach. Torveld knows Erasmus has been used, and instead of turning up his nose and passing the slave off onto someone less noble, he aims to care for Erasmus. Tears splash down his cheeks and thick fingers wipe them away.

“Have my words hurt you?”

Erasmus shakes his head, curls bouncing across his forehead. He wants to explain, to assure his prince, but his throat is thick with emotion. Torveld cups his face with gentle palms and waits.

“I do not deserve your thoughtfulness,” he says finally.

Torveld’s smile is soft and warm. “You deserve much more than you have been given. Allow me to try and make up for the wrongs of your past.”

Erasmus flushes at the statement. His master owes him nothing and yet, he strives to correct what has been done to the slave, even though the Veretian nobles had every right to do what they did. 

The cloth resumes its sure strokes against his thigh, but Torveld is watching his face instead of his own hands. Something tugs at Erasmus’s mind and he chews his lip. 

“Tell me what is troubling you.”

It’s hard to get the words out. He has no right to ask anything of his master, especially since the man is already giving him so much. But Torveld stops his motions again and turns the slave’s face upwards with gentle fingers on his chin.

“Erasmus?”

“Does this mean you will no longer kiss me?” He tries to keep his voice free of emotion, but a twinge of disappointment shows through. Erasmus drops his eyes and bites his lip, afraid to face the prince’s reaction. It is not his place to ask questions of his master’s orders.

A low chuckle brushes across his skin and sends a gentle shiver up his spine as memories of that noise from the night before drift across his mind: his prince above him, strong arms around him, and searing kisses along his neck. Torveld smiles at him and shifts his fingers through the thick curls that fall across his forehead.

“Now that I know the taste and feel of your lips, I will not be able to resist kissing you.”

A warm happiness flutters in Erasmus’s chest as Torveld demonstrates by leaning forward and claiming his mouth in a gentle, thorough kiss. 

When he pulls away, the slave wavers a little off balance and grips onto a muscled arm to steady himself. Torveld’s smile can only be described as smug.

Torveld resumes the care of his thigh and a silence settles over the pair as he works. The cloth disappears soon and Torveld grabs the paste that Erasmus had the forethought to gather in case the prince suffered injury on the hunt. The paste is cold to the touch, but Torveld rubs it in smooth lines against his scars, warming it as he goes. He’s careful as he works, fingertips focused on smoothing the paste onto his scars, but his thumb brushes against the soft skin of Erasmus’s inner thigh with each pass. 

Pleasure warms his lower back at the gentle caress. He can’t tell if Torveld is doing it on purpose, or if it is only a careless touch, but either way, it feels good and Erasmus is sensitive. His skin itches and he fights the urge to squirm. The thumb brushes closer to the top of his thigh as Torveld reaches the crest of one scar and Erasmus’s leg twitches before he can stop it.

Brown eyes lift to his face and he can only imagine what Torveld sees; eyes unfocused, breath coming in gentle pants, and the ever persistent flush beginning to show. The prince’s gaze darkens and drops to his lap. Erasmus is not stirring yet, but it is a near thing. 

“What brought about this reaction? Does the paste tingle?”

Erasmus shakes his head.

“Your thumb… I-I am unaccustomed to touches on my legs.” Anywhere really, if he is honest. His training required him to watch other lovers and never touch, learning from explicit instruction, not from active participation. He was directed to never indulge in touching himself, keeping his skin sensitive and unused to any sort of caress.

He expects Torveld to smirk and maybe press his legs open and slot between them, although he just promised him a First Night in Patras. Thus had been his experience in Vere and Torveld, while a prince, is also a man with desires. Instead, Torveld tucks his thumb inside his palm and finishes spreading the paste onto his last scar without letting his touch wander. Erasmus doesn’t know if he should be disappointed or relieved.

“I did not mean to tease you when I have only just said we would wait for your First Night.”

“I…“

“You?” Torveld prompts when Erasmus flushes a bright red and turns his gaze away.

“I like the feeling and the waiting.”

“You are very hard to resist,” Torveld growls and captures his lips. Torveld’s fingers grip the skin above his knee as he leans forward and his tongue presses into his mouth without hesitation. Erasmus can only wrap his arms around broad shoulders and take, responding with flicks and teases of his tongue that come as second nature.

The kiss is rough, although not unwelcome. Torveld’s beard scratches at the smooth skin of his face and their teeth clack together once in his master’s enthusiasm. Torveld keeps his hands relatively to himself, gripping his thigh for balance and using the other hand to tilt Erasmus’s head the way he wants it. Erasmus moves willingly. His skin is hot and pleasure rolls over his body like a wave, making his limbs all at once heavy and incredibly light.

The sound of cheering floats into the tent from outside. Torveld pulls back and Erasmus forces himself not to follow or make demands like the night before. He yearns for Torveld to kiss him more, to press him down against the cushion, to litter his neck with kisses again, but his desire to be good wins out. He needs to show Torveld he can be good.

“If we do not stop, I will not be able to keep true to my promise to give you a First Night,” Torveld says, a hint of regret in his voice.

Erasmus giggles and nods. His skin buzzes with the desire obvious in the older man’s gaze. He’s been leered at before, but Torveld’s look is a mix of affection and lust foreign to the young man. Torveld rights the hem of his tunic, covering smooth and broken skin, and presses a kiss to this forehead.

“Come, let’s enjoy the feast tonight. Tomorrow we leave for Patras.” The thought scares Erasmus, unsure what to expect from another move to another country, but as his fingers slide into his master’s grip and he is pulled swiftly to his feet, the fear calms. His master is kind, handsome, and understands how to honor a slave and accept honor in return. He thinks of Damianos, the prince he never saw but dreamt of for so long, and cannot imagine that he is more handsome or more kind than Torveld.

The thought fills Erasmus with shame, quickly overpowered by content. He is Torveld’s now and he is lucky.


	5. Chapter Five

From the outside, the Patran ship is large and ornate, although not gaudy like some of the other ships in the harbor of Vere. Erasmus never glanced the outside of the ship that brought him and the other slaves to Vere, blindfolded as he was. The inside looks the same. There are no cages, but the wood is heavy and the hull is dark with minimal lantern light. He can see the worried faces of the other slaves, shrouded in dark shadows, as they are herded downstairs into the belly of the ship and out of the way of the naval men trying to cast off. He wants to say something to relax their nerves, but Alaric, Torveld’s servant, steps to the front of the group before he can.

“The journey will take five days: two by sea to Sicyon and three by land to Bazal,” says the servant. “While on this ship, you need to remain out of the way so the men can work.” Alaric motions to the doors behind the group. “I will show you to the sleeping quarters.” 

The group turns and shuffles towards the doors, trepidation evident on most expressions, although some seem optimistic at the thought of rooms. Better than cages. Erasmus goes to follow, but a hand on his elbow pulls him back to face Alaric.

“Not you, Erasmus,” he says. “You stay here and I will show you to Prince Torveld’s quarters later.”

Some of the slaves nearby overhear and Tadeas, a young boy of fifteen, casts a dark look over his shoulder. 

The group leaves through a door and Alaric’s voice is cut off by thick wood. Erasmus is alone. He sits on the floor to lean back against a crate and pulls his knees to his chest. The sound of men calling to each other above deck, making preparations to leave, drifts to the slave, muffled and distant. The ship creaks as gentle waves of the harbor rock it first from one side, then to the other. The hull is dark and although Erasmus is not in a cage like his first passage, a sense of unease spreads into his stomach, thick like the porridge he was given for breakfast.

He closes his eyes and tries to turn his mind from a ship where he first felt the cruelty of man onto happier memories. Kallias laughing and lounging against him under the shade of a tree. Damen’s empty promise said with such confidence he dared to believe it. Laurent’s kind words. Torveld’s warm gaze and gentle hands. His patience. His kisses.

His master offered him a First Night the day before. As with Damen, Erasmus wishes to believe the promise, but doubt worries the edge of his mind and prevents him from fully giving over to hope. He spent his whole life believing he would be prince Damianos’s slave only to have that belief dashed at the last moment. The pain of a betrayal made his suffering in Vere worse, as he couldn’t help but compare his first experiences with what he had been promised.

It was perhaps his first true lesson about the nature of man: promises are not always kept. 

He yearns to believe Torveld. The prince is kind, thoughtful, and patient with Erasmus’s healing. He has given Erasmus no reason not to believe him. Yet, he holds some doubt. Torveld is a man and Erasmus expects him to do as men do when lying next to a pleasure slave night after night. 

He wants a First Night, but it is not his place to make demands. 

A thought crosses Erasmus’s mind and fills him with shame. A slave should believe their master and Erasmus should believe Torveld without question. He wants to. He wants nothing more than to believe every kindness and word that Torveld has given him, but fear holds him back. Fear of disappointment and trickery, his only experience with masters since leaving Akielos. His thoughts waver on a precarious line that slaves are not supposed to dwell on.

A hand clasps Erasmus on the shoulder and rips him from his dueling thoughts. A memory jumps to the forefront of his mind: a creaking ship, dark hull, and cruel hands on his skin. He shakes the hand off and presses back against the crate behind him, pulling his knees in tighter to shield his body.

“Don’t,” he whimpers.

The hand returns but only settles along his bare shoulder again, warm and familiar. The slave opens his eyes and Torveld’s worried gaze meets his. 

“Your thoughts are clear on your face. What is troubling you?”

Erasmus shakes his head and tips forward onto his knees and into the lowest bow he can manage with Torveld crouching before him. 

“This slave is sorry.”

“What for?”

“For knocking your hand off,” he says into the wood of the floor. Slaves are not permitted to rebuke their master and the guilt of it twists Erasmus’s stomach. Fingers comb through his curls. He tenses, prepared for them to grip tight at the nape of his neck and pull, but the punishment doesn’t come. Only a soft caress to his hair and a squeeze of his shoulder by the same hand he had turned away moments before.

At Torveld’s bidding, Erasmus kneels straight, eyes downcast but still facing his master. 

“Are you scared of the ship?” he asks.

Erasmus thinks on this for a moment, and then gives a short nod.

“Have you been on deck before?” A shake of light curls.

Torveld smiles and beckons him.

Torveld leads the way through the hull crowded with cargo and up a set of creaky wooden steps. The sun flares bright and Erasmus has to shield his eyes as he comes to stand on the deck of the ship. There is movement everywhere. Men scurry up poles and across the deck, some laden with rope and crates and some empty handed. The sails billow full and birds settle along the tops of the sails, unfazed by the men that work nearby. Veretian buildings and ships pass along one side and the ocean along the other.

Erasmus’s eyes widen and a joy he has never felt swells inside his chest. He turns his back to Vere and moves to lean against the railing overlooking the ocean. Deep blue stretches as far as his eyes can see and meets with the lighter blue of the sky in the distance. Dots of brown and white break up the expanse of blue, ships and clouds, but do nothing to lessen its vastness. Waves crest and break against the ship, sending foam and spray into the air. Erasmus has never seen anything all at once so beautiful and so powerful.

An arm settles low across his hips as Torveld comes to his side. “Have you seen the ocean before?”

“Yes, but never like this.” Ios is near the ocean, but he never stepped foot outside the palace or its inner courtyards. His only glances were far off and through small windows.

“It’s beautiful, sire, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” 

“I can think of something more beautiful.”

Erasmus turns with furrowed brows to ask what could possibly be more beautiful than the sea, only to find Torveld’s heavy gaze and warm smile directed at him. He blushes bright, pleasure and surprise filling him, and ducks his head. 

“This slave is beneath your praise.” 

Torveld doesn’t push, which makes Erasmus grateful. He is unused to the praises and compliments that seem to rain on him from Torveld at every turn. During his training, his form was scrutinized until perfection. In Vere, his body was appraised with crude remarks. No one has said the things that Torveld has.

“What was troubling you below the deck?”

The blonde can’t tell him about the hesitation he has to trust his master. Slaves should only submit and trust but Erasmus seems to be having trouble with that like he never did during his training. Still, there are other worries on his mind, worries that he can share with Torveld.

“What will happen when we get to Patras?” he asks.

“Well, I imagine the men will take care of the horses and supplies while I meet with my brother for an audience about how negotiations with Vere went.” Torveld’s teasing is evident in his voice. 

“I assume you meant what will happen to the slaves from Akielos,” he says a moment later.

Erasmus nods.

Torveld sighs and faces the ocean. “At first, they will fall into my brother’s care. King Torgeid will be much more diligent in their treatment than the Regent.” Erasmus tenses at the flippant insult to his old master and watches the ocean instead of his prince. “Slaves are prized in Patras, especially Akielon slaves since they are exotic and well-trained. My brother will no doubt keep a few, but the rest will be given to nobles of the court.”

Torveld grasps Erasmus’s shoulder and the younger man turns to face him. “You need not worry about the other slaves. They will be well taken care of in Patras.”

Erasmus’s gaze falls on the railing where his fingertips dig into the grain of the wood, smoothed by years of ocean breeze. 

“Ask,” Torveld prompts.

“Does that include me?”

“Yes, you will be well taken care of at Patras.”

That’s not what Erasmus meant to ask and he chews his lip, unsure of how to form his real question without it seeming like he is doubting his master. Torveld tilts his chin up with gentle fingers and smiles.

“I’m being cruel,” he says. “No, Erasmus, you will not be grouped in with the other slaves and given to a noble of the court. You are already accounted for.”

He reaches into his tunic, pulls out something that flashes in the bright sunshine, and offers it to Erasmus. The pin is all at once familiar and not. It’s small and gold like the one he wore throughout his training, but the image is of a wolf with keen eyes instead of a roaring lion. Erasmus’s eyes widen and he reaches a trembling finger out to trace the wolf’s ears and snout.

“My lord?” His voice is airy and almost gets swept away by the wind.

“The wolf is my symbol. Can I put it on you?”

The younger man’s heart thuds inside of his chest, overpowering the feeling of elation and surprise. He dared to be hopeful that Torveld would claim him, but anxiety of having his hopes dashed kept him from fully giving himself over to fantasies. 

“Erasmus?”

“Please, yes, I—This slave would be proud to wear your pin.” He stumbles over his words in his giddiness and forgets to say the traditional “this slave lives to serve” he has been taught his whole life. The words seem empty compared to feeling that thrums in his limbs.

Tan fingers bunch the tunic at his left shoulder and slide the pin into place. Erasmus reaches a hand up to run a finger over the face of the wolf, delighting in the grooves and texture. The weight on his left shoulder is familiar but to know his master and to know he has been chosen is different.

“It suits you,” Torveld says, eyes moving from the pin to Erasmus’s flushed face. Some desire must show there, because Torveld shifts and opens his arms, giving Erasmus all the invitation he needs. He launches into his master’s embrace and presses the full length of his body against Torveld’s. Strong arms wrap around him in return. The couple stands at the edge of the ship, movement all around them, finding solace and peace for a moment.

Erasmus’s thoughts from earlier, and doubt at his master’s words, strike him as wrong in the face of his prince’s kindness. Torveld promised him a First Night and Erasmus believes him with a conviction that fills his entire chest with certainty. Torveld is nothing like the men of Vere and Erasmus will no longer let their treatment taint his new master. The pin presses against his shoulder and Erasmus smiles into Torveld’s neck.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pulled Erasmus's "nothing" speech directly from the first book.

The first day of a journey by sea is always long. Torveld, who is used to the demands, finds it tedious. His time is filled giving orders to naval men, receiving updates from Alaric about the slaves, writing messages that will be carried as soon as the ship docks in Sicyon, and preparing for the journey by land with twenty-four extra bodies he had not accounted for. Supplies and horses will need to be purchased in Sicyon to make the journey. Torgeid will no doubt accuse him of getting waylaid by a pretty face, but with twenty-three slaves to add to the palace and a renewed treaty with Vere, even Torgeid cannot be too critical. Still, his teasing will no doubt be relentless.

Erasmus breaks up the long day with soft smiles and swaying hips as he moves around the prince’s office, looking over every trinket and book before choosing one on Patran culture. Torveld’s eyes drift to the young man curled in the chair more than once during his work and often finds Erasmus trailing his fingertips over the grooves of his new pin, smile soft and thoughtful. Torveld has to send the slave out to the deck to look at the ocean at one point so he can concentrate on the inventory log.

Erasmus spends the afternoon in the company of the other slaves and Torveld doesn’t see him again until they are readying for bed. Without prompting, Erasmus sings the one Patran song he knows as they wrap around each other beneath the blanket. Torveld drifts off to sleep in moments, the ship’s gentle rocking and Erasmus’s light voice the last sensations he is aware of.

A loud crash jerks Torveld awake. Too long fighting in the North has the prince moving before he is fully aware of the situation. He catalogs details in a swift moment: the bed is empty, although sheets still warm next to him, someone, presumably Erasmus, stands near the foot of the bed. The sound was a wobble from the table and a crash of clay against wood. 

He pushes himself up and out of bed as the dark silhouette of Erasmus’s head drops behind the foot of the bed. Torveld curses Akielon training inwardly, worried that the slave just knelt amongst sharp, glazed pieces with only a thin sleeping tunic to offer any protection. He lights a candle swiftly and comes around the edge of the bed. As he suspected, Erasmus supplicates on the floor, knees pressed into the hard wood and arms spread wide in his submission. Blue pieces of a vase glint in the candlelight.

“There is a chair behind you, stand very carefully and sit in it.” Erasmus does as he is ordered and Torveld steps around the fallen vase to his slave.

“What happened?” The older man drops to one knee before Erasmus. The motion makes the slave squirm in his seat.

“Sire, please—” he whimpers and Torveld can see the tremors that shake his thin limbs.

He hushes the slave and brushes gentle fingers up his thigh, caressing over the sleeping tunic so his touch is not taken the wrong way. “I need to take care of your knees. That is more important than my rank.” 

Erasmus quiets and goes very still, head turned away and eyes shut tight. The candlelight is dim, but Torveld can see enough to brush away clay shards and pick out any sharp pieces with quick fingers. There is a little blood, but nothing deep enough for a bandage. The relief that rushes through him is palpable. He wants to be angry with Erasmus for exposing himself to possible injury, but one glance at his slave’s expression has the emotion dissipating to be replaced with concern.

Erasmus looks terrified. His face is white, his bottom lip is red from where he has worried it with his teeth, and his fingers grip his thigh where scars lay beneath his tunic.

“What happened?” Torveld asks, gently this time. 

“I had a bad dream.”

“Why were you leaving?”

“To seek out Alaric.” _Of course_ , Torveld thinks. In Akielos, slaves are taught to rely on their handlers for grievances and to never burden their masters with their troubles. Alaric isn’t Erasmus’s handler, but he is the closest to it on this journey.

The hour is late and exhaustion weighs at the corners of Torveld’s eyes, but Erasmus is still shaking and gripping at his scars. He places a hand on top of the tense fingers and rubs them until they loosen their hold on the tunic.

“Come,” he says barely above a whisper, “there is something I wish to show you.”

Torveld leads the way through the dark ship with a lantern in one hand and Erasmus’s hand in the other. The ship is quiet this time of night, only a few men required to navigate at half speed. They step onto the deck without meeting anyone and Erasmus gasps aloud. Above them, the sky is a blanket of black with hundreds upon hundreds of glittering stars. The night is clear and the moon has just begun its descent towards the horizon, only half full. 

“I’ve never seen this many stars.” The younger man leans against the railing and props his head in his hands.

“The light from the fires at Ios would dim the view.”

“It’s beautiful,” he breathes. Torveld can’t help the stretch of a smile at his slave’s obvious joy. He vows one day to take Erasmus to the mountains where the stars seem even closer. 

He steps beside Erasmus and delights in the way the younger man shifts so their hips press together. 

“I know you were taught not to trouble your master but I would like to hear about your bad dream.” Erasmus studies the wood beneath his hand instead of the stars, fingers worrying along the grain; tension clear where his body touches Torveld’s.

It’s quiet for a while as Erasmus hesitates and Torveld waits, only the sound of the waves lapping against the ship coming between them. Finally, Erasmus seems to draw his courage and begins to speak.

“I dreamt of Vere.”

“I know you faced cruelty in Vere, but I do not know the extent of it. Will you tell me?”

“Yes.”

Erasmus relays his tale without emotion. The horrors of the ship, the parlor tricks and tests of the court, and the Regent’s neglect are woven before Torveld in a full image, no longer the small hints and pieces he tried to weave together himself. 

“I… was always taught that a slave’s duty was sacred, that we honored our masters through submission and they honored us in return.” Torveld nods. As a prince of Patras, he was taught to honor all loyalty, whether from slaves or courtiers, and above all, to care for and protect those weaker than him.

“In Vere, I understood that there is no honor in obedience, and it is shameful to be a slave. I tried to tell myself that it was an even greater submission, to become nothing, to have no value, but—I couldn’t.” 

Erasmus drops his chin to his chest and it is clear to the prince that he considers this a failure, like he considered his “test” a failure. Anger simmers under Torveld’s skin. This young man did as he was trained to do, submit and please, and in return he faced unimaginable horror, enough to trample his beliefs about masters into the earth. Physical wounds heal, but it is the lingering mental wounds that are most harmful.

Torveld places a hand on Erasmus’s shoulder and turns the slave so they are facing one another. He runs fingers through thick curls, brushing them out of the younger man’s eyes.

“Your submission is an honor. That the court of Vere took advantage of it is unthinkable.” Erasmus won’t meet his gaze, but his head tilts a fraction, pressing into Torveld’s fingers.

“You are wrong though.” The slave’s eyes squeeze shut at that and he drops his head further. “Becoming nothing is not a greater submission. Your mind is what makes you beautiful. That is greater.”

It is hard to see in only the starlight but Torveld can feel when Erasmus’s flushes. His skin tints and warms with his embarrassment. His spine curves, face lifts, and shoulders tilt back, opening to Torveld like a flower to the sun. 

“This— I—“ Erasmus tries to speak, but his words come out thick around his tongue. His fingers reach up and grip onto Torveld’s light tunic over his chest. 

“I want to hear your thoughts, Erasmus, your wishes, and your troubles.” Erasmus’s eyes widen in his shock and his hands unclench and clench in Torveld’s clothing. “Whenever we speak, I can see your mind working, evaluating what I’ve said, anticipating my desires. You are not simple like some slaves.”

“Sire—“

“Consider it an order, if you must, but I would like to hear your mind.” 

There is silence between them for a moment as Erasmus considers his words, then: “This slave does not deserve this prince’s kindness.”

Torveld smiles. “The fact you think of deserving at all proves that you are not mindless in your obedience.”

Erasmus jerks and stumbles to correct himself. “No, sire, I—“

“Torveld.”

“Torveld, I—“ Torveld cuts him off with a gentle kiss. When they part, Erasmus is quiet in his arms and Torveld keeps their foreheads pressed together.

“That was not an insult,” he says softly. “I don’t want mindless obedience. I picked you because you are beautiful, yes, but also because you were brave and strong when faced with your fears.”

He can’t resist pressing another kiss to Erasmus’s soft lips. “Think on what I’ve said.”

The younger man nods. Doubt crinkles the edges of hazel eyes and tugs at the corner of his mouth, but Torveld knows not to press more. Erasmus has eighteen years of training to overcome and Torveld will be patient. He pulls the slave further into his embrace and Erasmus fits into the curve of his body like they were meant to embrace on this ship this night, sailing from the troubles of Vere.


	7. Chapter Seven

_Your mind is what makes you beautiful._ The words echo in Erasmus’s thoughts and reawaken the feelings that rushed through him last night: terror of his nightmare, shame at waking his master and having his master at his feet, then elation and embarrassment at his master’s kind words, and finally shame at his thoughts being discovered. Slaves are allowed to have thoughts: thoughts of what their masters like and predictions of what their masters want. But a master should not be able to tell that a slave is thinking beyond the actions of obeying.

 _I don’t want mindless obedience._ The words strike Erasmus as odd. They war against what he has always been taught: submit, trust, and please. Nowhere does his training say: think, question, and argue. Torveld continues to surprise Erasmus with every action, every order. Erasmus doesn’t think he will be able to do the last two, but if Torveld wants to hear his thoughts and wishes, Erasmus will strive to fulfill his master’s desires. After all, his words were genuine last night and it is not Erasmus’s place to question his master’s motivation.

The irony that he should obey his master’s order to think and question without question strikes him and he almost laughs aloud. Except, Torveld did tell him to think on it, which in its own way ensures that Erasmus begins to follow the order.

The idea is an endless circle and Erasmus turns his thoughts away before he can get caught up in the subtle contradictions. His master wants his thoughts and he will try his best to voice them.

Erasmus stands on the edge of the ship where the couple stood last night, gazing out upon the blue ocean. The sky is covered in thick, white clouds that break up the expanse of blue on either side of the ship. He leans over the railing, elbows resting on top of it and head in his hands, as he watches the waves lap at the side of the ship, foam rolling up and back in a gentle rhythm. 

They will reach Sicyon in the middle of the night and dock in the harbor designated to Patras by the treaty with Akielos. His prince is busy with preparations and spent a large amount of the morning murmuring about travel and supplies. Erasmus served him for a few hours then asked to be excused to the deck when he realized his presence was only distracting his master.

The breeze shifts through his curls and tastes like salt on his tongue. He feels a presence at his back but keeps his eyes trained on the horizon. Torveld must have felt the need for a break.

A body presses against him, bulky and unfamiliar. It’s not Torveld. Erasmus tries to jerk away but it’s too late. He is trapped against the rail. Thick thighs and hips cup his smaller frame. A muscled chest pushes against his back until his chest presses hard into the rail and makes it difficult to breath. He struggles but large hands grip his upper arms to keep his elbows from flailing back.

“You’re gorgeous,” says the rough voice, breath thick with mead. Erasmus chokes.

“Stop, please.” He tries to buck against the rail, but it’s no use. The man pushes harder against him until all he can do is struggle to inhale through the burning pressure on his ribs.

“Why? Your master said he’d share.” Shock and betrayal strike through Erasmus’s spine, leaving him dazed and unbalanced. _Not Torveld_ , his mind rages, but the despair of a broken promise has already lodged itself deep inside his chest. Even kind Torveld could be cruel.

The brute kicks his legs apart and jerks his arms backwards so that his spine curves and his face presses against the wood of the wide railing. An unmistakable hardness ruts against his backside, blocked only by thin layers of clothing. He squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth as memories from the garden of Vere rise unbidden. 

_Not again._

“Unhand him!” Torveld’s voice, loud and filled with indignant rage, cuts through the rushing in Erasmus’s ears. The weight rips away from his back and the slave gulps mouthfuls of salty air, desperate to breathe through the tight panic in his chest.

There’s a scuffle, shouting, and chaos behind him. Erasmus turns in time to see the brute swing hard at his master with a meaty fist. Torveld, slighter and quicker, ducks the punch with ease and comes up with one, two swift punches that knock the large man onto his back. The man goes to launch himself at the prince again, but the sound of metal and the tip of a short sword against his neck make him freeze.

Murder is written in the lines of Torveld’s face. 

“I should slice you open and cast you into the sea for the sharks,” he growls. 

“I didn’t know, my lord.” The groveling turns Erasmus’s stomach and he has to look away from the man. 

“Didn’t know? Then you make it a habit to take slaves who are not yours?” There is no right answer and the man seems to realize this, staying silent.

The tension is thick and a crowd has gathered to watch the commotion. Torveld’s back is stiff with rage. Erasmus aches to wrap his arms around his prince and calm him, but not here. Not in front of men waiting to see what the prince will do.

“Lash him,” Torveld orders with a snarl, “until he cannot stand. Then throw him into the brig.” 

Men hurry to do the prince’s bidding, taking up the brute’s arms and tying his hands behind his back in a swift motion. Torveld stalks forward until his face is mere inches from the man’s. 

“You are cast from Patras. When we dock, you will leave this company and never set foot in my country again.” The man balks but Torveld’s fist comes up fast and hard, knocking his head sideways. It takes three sturdy men to drag the unconscious lug away.

The railing digs hard into Erasmus’s back where he presses against it, gaze trained on the floor and fingers clenching into the wood behind him. Familiar sandals step into his line of sight. Tension radiates off his prince and Erasmus drops his head further and curls his shoulders in, anxious that anger will turn on him. He wants to supplicate, but he’s not sure what to apologize for. He shouldn’t have let the man touch him, but he didn’t know how to stop him. Out of his periphery, he sees Torveld’s hands raise and braces for a strike, but the fingers only grasp the edge of his tunic and tug it down gently from where the material bunched around his mid-thigh in his struggle.

“Are you hurt?” Erasmus shakes his head. “You’re shaking.” 

He is. Fear and adrenaline wrack his body, energy unused and making him tremble. He tries to control it but the tremors won’t stop. He wants to be brave but flashes of Govart and nobles and men at sea cross his mind. Torveld pulls him forward into an embrace and Erasmus buries his face into the bend of his prince’s neck. Strong hands rub up and down the exposed skin of his back as Torveld whispers soothing words into his ear. He concentrates on the rumble of the older man’s tone and the feeling of raised bumps on his skin that spring up beneath roaming fingertips, trying to bury past horrors beneath present sensation.

The trembling stops, finally, and Erasmus relaxes into the warm circle of Torveld’s arms, content to stand there until the ship docks at Sicyon.

“I am sorry you have been hurt under my care,” Torveld says against his curls, cheek resting on the top of his head. 

Erasmus reels and jerks up from the prince’s embrace, although not out of the circle of his arms. “Sire, please, this slave is beneath your apology.”

“Your protection is my responsibility.” His prince’s usual easy smile and warm eyes twist and cloud with regret. His fingers grip onto Erasmus’s bare arms. “I vow no harm will come—“

Erasmus surges forward on tiptoes and presses a firm kiss to Torveld’s mouth. The action is daring, unbelievably daring for a meek slave, but he can’t let his master finish his vow. He can’t bear the weight of a promise that his master may not be able to keep, not when there are too many instances out of his control.

“Please Torveld.” He swallows. “Your protection is more than I could ask for. Don’t—” He chokes off, unable to finish his demands. Already, he has said too much.

He stares hard at Torveld’s collarbone, unable to face his master’s expression and see anger or disappointment there. A slave shouldn’t interrupt. He trembles. A slave shouldn’t stop their master from anything. Shame drips like ice down his spine. A slave—

Calloused fingers grip his chin and force him to raise his eyes to meet brown ones that shine with warm approval.

“Well done, Erasmus.” Torveld chuckles and grins before sweeping his arms around the shaking man. “Well done,” he murmurs again and Erasmus preens.


	8. Chapter Eight

Docking in Sicyon would be chaos under a green leader, but Torveld is organized and gives orders in a clear voice, every detail already considered and planned for. Men fill carts with supplies from the ship while a band of Torveld’s guards head into town to secure horses for the extra travelers. Half of the slaves will be able to ride in the carts but the rest will need to ride on horseback.

Alaric sees to the slaves, dividing them into two groups: slaves who have ridden a horse before and slaves who haven’t. Erasmus is put in the first group, though he has never ridden a horse in his life. He casts his eyes towards the stable where the large beasts huff and stamp, eager to run, and trepidation fills his chest. He wants to tell Alaric, but slaves aren’t supposed to correct people above them and he hasn’t been true to his training lately. He stays quiet and pulls on the pair of riding pants beneath his tunic like he is told. The material is thick and padded along his thighs and buttocks. He hasn’t worn pants since he was a little boy and the strange sensation makes his legs itch.

“They can’t be planning to give us our own horses,” says Tadeas, a mouthy slave with the traditional Akielon olive complexion. “We aren’t that skilled at riding.”

A few slaves shush him, worried his words will be taken as criticism for their master.

“Prince Torveld is wise,” Erasmus finds himself saying. “He has a plan.”

Tadeas rounds on him, anger sketched into his skin and green eyes sharp. “Did he tell you the plan before or after he fucked you?” 

“He didn’t tell me the plan,” he says calmly, ignoring the way the teenager spits the word “fucked” like Torveld would treat him so poorly. His prince is better than that.

“Then what do you know?” Tadeas snaps with crossed arms. It makes him look petulant and younger than his fifteen years.

“Patras is nothing like Vere. You will be treated well there.”

“Easy to say when you already know your master.”

Erasmus quiets. There is nothing to be gained by allowing a frightened slave to use him as a practice dummy. Tadeas’s words flirt the line of treacherous that slaves are not supposed to approach and he is lucky loyal Alaric has stepped away to tend to the cart slaves.

Torveld’s plan is revealed to them in the next moment as five gentle mares are brought to the edge of their party. Each one has a long leather lead that is swiftly attached to the saddle of a horse already mounted by one of Torveld’s men. The men’s horses are eager to start the journey, having been cooped up in the stables while the company was in Vere. They stamp and flick their tails in their impatience while the mares stand quietly a short distance behind.

The prince rounds the corner of the stable, deep in conversation with a stable hand. A leather pouch passes between them, heavy with gold, and they part.

Erasmus drops to his knees along with the other slaves around him when Torveld approaches their small group. 

“Rise,” he says in a clear voice. Erasmus is the first to listen to the order, followed swiftly by Tadeas who looks upon Torveld with calculating eyes. He’s lucky Torveld is the master that he is, Erasmus thinks, because another master would see the look as insolence.

“For the next three days, you will be lead through the countryside by my men. The road to Patras is easy. I know you are not accustomed to riding but there will be baths waiting you in Bazal to ease any strained muscles.”

They have to ride two to a saddle, but the slaves are thin and the mares, sturdy. Alaric pairs them and the men assist them onto the horses without wandering hands. For a moment Erasmus wonders if Torveld miscalculated but the smile on his face when he turns to the two slaves not on horseback tells Erasmus that he planned this.

“Erasmus, you will ride with me. Tadeas.” The slave flinches and his eyes widen at the realization the prince knows his name. “You will ride with Lord Gareth.”

Both slaves follow the direction of Torveld’s finger. Lord Gareth is young, only a few years older than Erasmus, and slender with chestnut hair that frames the elegant features of his face with soft waves. He looks nothing like the hardened soldiers that surround him, but the Captain’s badge that gleams on his chest tells the story of ruthless finesse with the sword. Tadeas’s eyes glint as he stride towards the man, shoulders back and spine straight. His bravado reflects nothing of his Akielon training.

Erasmus steps to Torveld’s side. “Did you pick Tadeas on purpose?”

“Alaric told me of Tadeas’s wit. He will underestimate Gareth and be sorely outmatched.” 

Erasmus wonders if wit is a polite way of referring to Tadeas’s sharp tongue, or if Torveld is unaware of Tadeas’s true nature.

The pair watches as Tadeas hefts himself onto the saddle, blatantly ignoring Gareth’s outstretched hand. The slave presses the length of his chest against the older man’s back and says something low into his ear. Gareth’s amused smile transforms into a wolfish grin. He turns and whispers something that makes Tadeas, the slave with a dirty mouth and lewd comments in the absence of masters, flush bright red. 

“I predict Gareth will bed him before we reach Patras,” Torveld says. 

“Will Tadeas get in trouble with the King?”

“No, my brother will just be glad Gareth has an outlet for his energy.”

Erasmus yearns to know what Gareth said to make Tadeas blush, but there is no subtle way to ask. Instead, he follows his prince as he is led to a beautiful steed, grey with dark grey speckling on his flank. The beast stands tall and proud and Erasmus yearns to protest and tell Torveld why he should be in a cart instead. Images of being thrown from that height flash across his mind, but he gulps down his fears. Torveld is here. Torveld is a rider. Torveld will keep him safe.

Torveld heaves first himself, then Erasmus onto the sturdy animal. Erasmus squeaks when he is lifted into the saddle and clenches his legs tight around the beast’s ribs. The horse gives an indignant huff and Torveld has to pull on the reigns to keep them from moving forward.

“Relax,” he says and reaches back to rub Erasmus’s tense thighs. “You’ll lock up in an hour if you ride like that.”

“I’ve never ridden before.”

Torveld laughs. “I’ll teach you how one day. For now, just relax your legs and hold onto my waist.”

Erasmus shifts and presses along Torveld’s back. He wraps his arms around his master’s waist and leans his cheek against lean muscles beneath soft cotton.

“Good,” Torveld mutters, then in a loud voice: “We ride!”


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Eight is so short, I decided to post two today. Enjoy! :)

The journey across land is monotonous and one Torveld has traveled a hundred times. Familiar grassy hills and trees pass as the caravan moves at a lazy trot, unable to go faster with the heavy carts. The men tell stories, the slaves sing songs, and Tadeas and Gareth tease one another. Torveld’s prediction came true; Tadeas slept in Gareth’s tent the first night.

“He’s a nobleman in his own right, a cousin and a lord,” Torveld informs the young man behind him after another shocked laugh from Tadeas hangs in the air. “He’s never taken a slave. He says they’re too submissive. But he will claim Tadeas.”

“Tadeas is lucky then to have found a master like Gareth.”

“Because Gareth will let him be himself?”

“Yes,” Erasmus says and the arms around Torveld’s waist tighten. Torveld smiles and conveys his own joy by rubbing a thin wrist.

That’s what makes this journey different from the hundred before. Erasmus is a light weight at his back and a pleasant distraction from the mundane surroundings. He converses easily with both guards and slaves, always sweet and polite, and sings along with some Akielon songs, voice pitched soft in Torveld’s ear. He points at various flowers, trees, and landmarks and asks Torveld to explain them all, listening with rapt attention and delighting in every detail. 

At some point, the questions turn to Torveld instead: his favorite foods, his favorite wine, and any other detail Erasmus could use to serve him. Torveld, not to be outdone, asks his own questions. It becomes a game, a volley of question and answer and Torveld finds himself enjoying the trip in a way he hasn’t before.

Thundering hooves announce the approach from behind and Torveld guides his horse to the right just in time for a brown stallion to streak past, Tadeas at the reigns. Gareth’s laughter catches on the wind.

“Tadeas reminds me of Nicaise actually,” he says as he guides his steed back onto the road.

“Only Nicaise thinks before he speaks.”

Torveld laughs outright and Erasmus shakes with giggles at his back. 

The pair watches as the stallion cusps a hill and then turns back, whoops of laughter preceding it. The horse gallops straight to them and turns at the last moment to fall in line with the prince’s horse, kicking dust onto their feet.

“Enjoying yourself, Sir Gareth?” 

“Naturally, my lord.” His smile is toothy and makes him appear more boy than man. The slave before him wears a matching grin.

“Again?” Tadeas asks, turning his head to eye the man behind him. The gaze Gareth levels on the slave is full of mischief and a hint of adoration.

“Waiting on you, sweetheart,” he drawls. Tadeas chokes a laugh and kicks the horse into a gallop.

“Did you plan this?” Erasmus asks as the pair speeds off.

“Yes, they seem compatible, don’t they?”

“How did you know?”

“It seems you are not the only one who had a nightmare on the ship. Alaric told me of Tadeas’s fears.” His fears of not finding a master, or of finding a cruel master who wanted only a thoughtless slave. His fears of being cast out of Patras or passed around by wicked guards in punishment.

“And his mouth?”

“And his mouth.” A slave with a mouth and tendency to voice crude thoughts would only amuse Lord Gareth. Gareth would see it as a personal challenge to win Tadeas’s loyalty and affection rather than demand it.

“You’re the kindest man I’ve ever met.” Erasmus hums and nuzzles against Torveld’s back, tightening his grip around the prince’s middle. 

In an hour, the sun begins to dip below the horizon, splashing the sky in orange, yellow, and pink. The group moves off the road to set up camp in the grassy field. Gareth barks orders, setting company and slave to task, and the camp is made in less than an hour. 

Torveld emerges from his tent just as the sun sets fully, having spent the last two hours checking supplies and writing a missive to his brother. Already, they had crossed the border into Patras and would be in Bazal the following day toward nightfall. Fires are lit around the camp for warmth against the cooler nights of Patras. Men and slave alike sit around the fires, sharing wine, bread, and cheese for dinner. Some slaves fill wine glasses and serve food and Torveld can only imagine they find comfort in the familiarity of tasks.

He finds Erasmus sitting away from the fire with a plate of cheese and bread balanced on one knee. He’s removed the riding pants and the yellow light dances over his cream skin where the tunic has slid up one thigh. 

The prince joins him, stopping only to settle a thin blanket around his shoulders. Hazel eyes are filled with questions he knows the slave won’t ask so he says, simply, “It’s cool tonight and the fire won’t do you any good at this distance.”

Erasmus blushes and opens his mouth to explain himself but Torveld wraps an arm around his waist and pulls the younger man flush against his side before he can. He doesn’t need to explain. Torveld understands fear. Erasmus keeps his eyes downcast, staring at the plate where his fingers fiddle along the edge. The prince runs fingers through soft curls tousled by the wind from riding today. His fingers follow the path they took that first night, when Erasmus needed a focus for his breathing.

“This slave would like to feed you,” Erasmus says softly.

Torveld nods his permission and the light-haired man raises a bit of hard cheese to his mouth. In Akielos, the slaves feed the masters as a sign of service and submission. The master’s well-being comes before their own. In Patras, it is a master’s duty to care for the slave and Torveld cannot resist the instinct.

He lifts a small piece of bread to Erasmus and the slave takes it from his fingers with soft lips that just barely brush his fingertips. 

Across the fire, Tadeas and Gareth sit side by side, eating from separate plates of cheese and bread. Torveld watches as Tadeas, cheeks pink, offers a small morsel to Gareth, eyes defiant when his master looks at him with amusement. The edge of Gareth’s grin softens and he takes the offer before pressing a kiss to the slave’s cheek and muttering something in his ear. Tadeas’s blush brightens and he dips his head, submissive in a way his fears would not let him be the day before.

Torveld turns his attention back to his own slave and their almost finished meal. Erasmus is quiet and his fingers rub back and forth over his tunic, digging at the leg muscle beneath.

“Are you sore?” The slave nods. “Come,” he says and leads the way to his tent. Usually, Torveld spends time amongst his men at night, joking and sharing stories, but tonight Erasmus needs his attention. There will be plenty of time for stories during the final day of their ride.

The inside of the tent is warm and Erasmus casts the blanket onto the sleeping pallet as Torveld fetches oil and paste. They settle onto a rug near the pallet, the tunic already lifted to reveal supple thighs. The scars look better than they did a few days ago; the wounds have healed fully and are no longer pink with threatened infection. 

Torveld places the paste down and opens the oil instead to dribble a healthy amount onto his fingers. Honey eyes light up with curiosity, but the slave keeps quiet and settles back on his hands, assuming the position they have used every night for the scar paste, legs outstretched and spread to give Torveld room to settle between. Torveld places the heel of his hand above his knee, presses down, and rubs a firm line up the tense thigh to his hip. Erasmus jumps and groans.

“Torveld?” he asks, chewing his bottom lip as he has a tendency to do when he is nervous.

“You’re sore from riding,” he says and presses again. Erasmus whimpers with the pressure but keeps his leg from jerking away.

“This slave should massage you.”

“Your muscles are unaccustomed to riding. Mine are fine.”

The slave quiets and watches his master’s hands work. Torveld massages firm up and down the length of his scarred thigh. The skin is soft beneath his hands and the scars are rough. He knows the sensations are probably intense, bordering on painful, but Erasmus barely makes a noise except to moan when Torveld unlocks knot after knot. 

Torveld moves his attention to the other thigh, glancing up at Erasmus as he shifts. The slave is beautiful, breathtaking. His cheeks are a slight pink color, his eyes are closed and head tilted back slightly, and his lips part around soft pants. He is enjoying this and the idea fills Torveld’s stomach with a familiar heat. He yearns to push the slave flat on his back and the power of his desire overwhelms him for a moment, freezing his hands mid-motion.

Hazel eyes open halfway and the gaze is molten with desire. “Torveld?” Erasmus’s voice is thick, pitched a little lower than normal, and his name said that way undoes his iron control.

He surges forward and captures Erasmus’s lips in a searing kiss. A soft moan punches out of Erasmus’s chest when his back hits the rug and the noise will be forever etched into Torveld’s memory. He is insistent and presses until his body covers the smaller frame beneath him, arms braced on either side of the young man’s head.

The kiss is brutal, a claiming desire that Torveld cannot hold back. Erasmus whimpers into his mouth as their tongues meet again and again. 

Erasmus does not stay still or pliant, as his training would urge him to. He wriggles and shifts, overwhelmed with pleasure. His legs spread to invite Torveld closer and his hips move out of instinct, seeking friction. Torveld is overcome with longing. His hands grip onto the smooth curves of thin hips, nude where the tunic has risen up in their movements, and bears down.

Erasmus cries out and his entire body jerks with his shudder. 

The noise and the realization that this may have been the first time Erasmus as ever felt grinding friction against his cock make Torveld pull back. He doesn’t move far, just far enough to look at Erasmus, still a warm presence between the slave’s trembling thighs.

A pink flush spreads from the light-haired man’s face into the neck of his tunic. He pants, thin chest rising and falling with the steady action. And his wrists—Torveld curses in his mind—are crossed above his head, an Akielon form reserved for First Night.

“We have to stop,” he says, voice rough and thick with his desire to do the opposite.

“I’m healed.”

The statement lurches Torveld’s body forward before he has thought his actions through and he freezes, lips inches from the kiss-swollen ones beneath him. He presses his forehead to Erasmus’s and closes his eyes against the desire reflected in his gaze.

“Tomorrow we reach Bazal. There will be much to see to,” he sighs. “The next night, I will have you, Erasmus. When I have all night to learn the pleasure of your body.”

Fingers clutch at his shoulder blades and he would have to be a stronger man to resist the gentle tug. The slave pulls him into a sweet kiss. The pleasure in his belly sparks anew, but it is a wave lapping at his ankles compared to the tumultuous surge from before. 

“It is all I think about,” Erasmus says softly when they part. Their eyes meet, hazel and brown, and Torveld can see warm desire and the hint of another emotion too early to name swimming in those depths. He is sure his own gaze reflects the same.


	10. Chapter Ten

For all that Patran culture and clothing is most related to Akielos, the palace in Bazal reminds Erasmus of Arles. It is a sprawling fortress with high stonewalls, smooth arches, and inner gardens and courtyards. The hallways and chambers are wide with high ceilings, but lack the overdone Veretian silks and tapestries of Arles. The decorations and furnishings speak of Akielon influence and more than one tapestry depicts a younger Torveld fighting Vask in the North.

His master was right. There is much to see to. They arrive to a warm welcome as the sun begins to set. The commoners gather to catch a glimpse of the company and cheer and throw flowers to welcome the weary travelers home. Torveld may not be king, but his kindness and his ferocity in battle make him a favored prince of the people. Gareth snatches a flowered crown out of midair and places it on the slave before him. Tadeas makes a face, but does not remove the flowers from his hair, which in turn makes Gareth smile warm.

The men see to the horses, Gareth and Torveld are summoned to the king, and Alaric leads the slaves to the bath chambers. There, they meet their handler, Adrian. Adrian is past his prime—Erasmus estimates around thirty years old—but his features and figure still mark him as beautiful: sun-kissed skin, a curly waterfall of brown hair, sharp cheekbones, and full lips. Erasmus can only imagine how striking he was as a younger man. Adrian swiftly takes control of the twenty-four slaves and sets them to washing and soaking after a long five days of travel. He tuts over healing bruises and helps the younger ones wash their hair.

Tadeas approaches Erasmus as he washes. 

“Your prince is kind,” he says simply. Erasmus takes the apology for what it is and smiles at the boy.

“Lord Gareth is smitten with you.”

“He is going to ask the king for me.” Tadeas looks down and flushes, a sign of his Akielon training.

“Honor him and he will take care of you.”

Tadeas lip curls with the instinct to snap something at Erasmus, but he stops himself. “Yes,” he says instead and offers to wash Erasmus’s back.

After the bath, the slaves are shown to their quarters and urged to rest from their journey for the next few days. There will be a celebration to honor Prince Torveld’s return in two nights and all of the slaves will be expected to serve.

Erasmus does not see Toveld until later that evening. The sun had set hours before and with its setting came a servant with a written message for Erasmus to find comfort in his bed and that Torveld would join him when he could. Erasmus, ever obedient, curls under the thin summer blankets, fingers gripped around the missive with flowing script. He feels like he is taking liberties, spending the night in the prince’s bed without him, but the bed is soft and exhaustion makes his body heavy.

Anxiety forgotten, he must sleep because he wakes up sometime later to a body pressing against his back and an arm wrapping tight around his waist. He’s pulled into the curve of hips and chest he has become familiar with over the last few nights and he glances over his shoulder to see Torveld’s face lined with exhaustion.

“Sleep Erasmus,” his prince breathes. Torveld presses his nose into the hair at the nape of his neck and breathes in deeply. Erasmus feels the tension ease out of the arm and chest pressed against him. Sleep overcomes the pair in moments.

***  
The second day in Patras is much like the first. Torveld is called to meetings with his brother and Council and must leave Erasmus alone all day. He tries to slip out of bed without waking the slave, but Erasmus is attuned to his prince’s body and awakens to help him dress for the day. He is grateful Patran clothing is similar to Akielon because his tired fingers would not be able to navigate anything more difficult this early. He yawns as he works and Torveld runs gentle fingers through the sleep-tousled mess of his hair.

“Tonight, Erasmus. I promise,” he rumbles as the slave wraps arms around his neck for just one more farewell kiss. He presses a light kiss to Erasmus’s cheek, ushers him back to bed, and urges him to sleep longer.

Erasmus dozes for a while, but anticipation for his First Night keeps him from fully succumbing to sleep. Instead, he spends his day imagining Torveld’s fingers and mouth on his body, then trying to distract himself from such thoughts with the books that line the prince’s shelves. Many of the tomes are about Veretian culture, politics, and history, but Erasmus finds a few about Patras to occupy his time. 

Around midafternoon a young serving boy finally fetches him to go to the baths. Eagerness sparks along Erasmus’s skin as he is led through stone hallways to the same large room the slaves used the day before. Adrian meets him at the door. Cool eyes rake his body from head to toe. Erasmus is used to roaming eyes and lewd remarks, but Adrian’s gaze is scrutinizing and makes him self-conscious in a way men’s lingering looks usually don’t. 

“Come, little sparrow, we have much to do to ready you for Prince Torveld.” Adrian tugs him into the bath chambers and closes the door with a firm snap. 

The chambers seem larger than the day before without twenty-four Akielon slaves washing and soaking. The soft padding of their steps echo against the thick walls as Adrian tugs him to the side of a steaming bath. 

“Strip,” the handler commands, twisting his own hair up and away to reveal the long column of his neck. He is beautiful and Erasmus gets a flash of what Kallias may look like when he is older, their complexion and hair achingly similar. The thought doesn’t sting as thoughts of Kallias tend to but it distracts him enough that Adrian huffs in annoyance and steps close to strip Erasmus himself.

Long fingers reach for the pin and pause for a moment, eyes finally catching on the golden wolf at his shoulder.

“He must be head over heels for you, love,” Adrian says as he unclips the pin with reverent fingers.

“This slave is pleased to serve a kind master.” Erasmus blushes. 

Adrian laughs, tinkling and light. “I can see why he likes you, pretty blush like that.”

Erasmus’s clothing puddles onto the floor and Adrian ushers him into the bath. 

“Tell me how you won the prince’s affections,” the brunette says as he unplugs one of the dozen glass vials set out for their use.

Erasmus thinks for a few moments as Adrian’s hands begin to work soap into his skin. His mind turns to the first time they met and his inability to achieve perfect form with the heat of the fire licking his skin.

“I’m not sure.”

“You’ve already won him, dearie.” Adrian laughs and scrubs at his skin, fingers deft and thorough. “No need to hide your secrets from me. I tried for years to earn his claim. A lot of slaves have.”

The thought jolts Erasmus. He has no illusions that his prince is untouched and he is sure Torveld has slept with many slaves, but he never imagined he would be the first one to be claimed. His chest fills with warmth that rivals the water lapping at his skin.

“Come now, share with Auntie Adrian.”

“Auntie?”

“It sounds better than uncle, doesn’t it? Un-cull,” he sounds out slowly, lip curled, “nasty sounding word.”

Erasmus giggles, raising a wet hand to hide his laughter. 

“Oh, I’m beginning to see what the prince likes in you.”

“If I tell you, will you tell me more about him?” Erasmus asks as sure fingers begin to scrub soap into his neck and chest.

“Beautiful and smart, not a likely combination in an Akielon slave. Lucky prince Torveld.”

“This slave is the lucky one.”

“Yes, little sparrow.” Adrian smiles and cups his hands to wash the soap from the light-haired man’s body.

Adrian continues to wash Erasmus, attentive to every inch of skin, as they share their stories. Erasmus tells him of Vere and the fire, skipping over the finer details of the horrors he faced, save for the burns on his legs. He tells him of the ship and his fears and kind Prince Torveld. It feels good to relay his tale to someone, a role Kallias once filled, and the handler listens attentively to every detail.

When he is done, Adrian has finished washing his body and hair in three different perfumed soaps. He sits along a low shelf in the pool, soaking up to his neck, as Adrian begins to tell him of Torveld.

The prince is widowed, his wife and child died in childbirth when he was a young man of only twenty. He was in Vask at the time and the news reached him on the eve of a battle. The next day, his troop of 500 wiped out a field double their size. 

“Torveld never married again. The king urged him to, of course,” Adrian says. “To carry on their line, but Torveld refused. He plans for everything and the dangers of childbirth is something he couldn’t have planned for.”

He took slaves after that, offerings from other kingdoms when he traveled and some within the palace of Bazal, but never for more than a couple of nights.

“I’ve heard he is generous in bed, but holds something of himself back.” Adrian runs a soft towel over the length of Erasmus’s legs. His eyes darken at the scars, but he says nothing and Erasmus is grateful.

“That he plans to claim you at all is remarkable. You should be honored.”

“This slave lives to serve.” The words, while true, don’t feel genuine and a thin, dark eyebrow lifts in question. Erasmus feels his cheeks heat with a light flush when he adds: “I am honored.”

Adrian’s tinkling laugh echoes off the chamber walls.

Their conversation turns to lighter topics then, Patran culture and the celebration the next day. All the while, Adrian works. He spreads oil over the expanse of Erasmus’s skin that has to soak in for half an hour before he washes away the excess. He dabs a familiar paste onto the scars and then slicks his entire body with a different, thinner oil that dries on his skin, leaving it soft. 

Then comes the paint. Erasmus expects full paint on his eyes, lips, and perhaps swirls on his neck and collarbones to bring attention to the expanse of his neck and soft curve of his shoulders. The brunette only lifts a piece of dark kohl to his eyes.

“Prince Torveld prefers natural beauty,” he says, as he applies the kohl. Erasmus stores that information away, hoping to use his beauty in the future to entice and relax his prince after a long day of meetings or training.

His hair is brushed gently and mussed again and again by Adrian’s firm hands until the curls lay full and soft around his face. Finally, he is dressed. The chiton is Akelion and pale blue in color. The fabric lays over one shoulder, held by the golden wolf, and falls to just below the end of his scars. His arms and legs are bare and the material is so thin it is almost sheer. 

Adrian steps back to rake a final, critical eye over Erasmus’s body.

“Prince Torveld will bend you over as soon as he sees you.”

Erasmus flushes hot at that, but the teasing statement makes him realize something. 

“Should you prepare me?” he asks.

“The prince expressly ordered me not to.” The handler shrugs. “He must like it tight.”

Hazel eyes widen and a thrill of fear flashes through his body. He remembers the men on the ship and the burning pain and—A hand grips his shoulder and jerks him out of the memory.

“It’s not that bad. Just take a deep breath right before he enters and let it out as he thrusts in. The pain will be temporary.” Erasmus can feel his head nodding, but his mind is elsewhere. Surely, kind Prince Torveld wouldn’t… He does not wish to think of it. 

Adrian makes final, primping touches to his chiton and hair. “You’re ready, little sparrow,” he announces.

“Can I ask something?” Erasmus has battled his curiosity the entire afternoon, hoping Adrian would give him a hint to satiate his thoughts. Adrian nods. “Who did you serve?”

“Did? Oh dearie,” Adrian’s laugh is loud in the empty chamber and his smile creates deep dimples on his cheeks and the hint of wrinkles at his eyes. “I still serve the King. Did you think I would bend over for anyone less?”


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment you've all been waiting for! At least, the beginning of it. One more chapter to go after this one!

Torveld loves his brother, well and truly. He would ride a hundred battles for the man and he has, but if he has to sit through one more meeting, he will kill him with the closest weapon. His hand rests on the table near an apple and he thinks it may not be the best choice but he’s a resourceful man.

At his right, his captain is fairing no better. Gareth’s leg bounces up and down, an obvious tell of his impatience, although his face is carefully blank. Earlier in the day, Gareth and Torgeir reached an agreement, six more years of Gareth’s sword and captaincy in exchange for Tadeas. Torveld confronted Gareth during a break, worried the young man was being taken advantage of in his desire to have the slave. 

“King Torgeir knows I could not afford to buy a slave with training like Tadeas.” He smiled. “Besides, I plan to serve as your captain for double that time.”

The meeting comes to a close moments later and Torveld and Gareth are the first to rise from the table, pausing only to bow to the king before departing.

Anticipation thrums through Torveld’s body and the distance from the meeting chambers to his rooms seems longer than before. It is a relief to see the dark wood door to his room and a bigger relief to push the door open, ordering the guards posted at his door to disturb him only if another country lays siege to the palace.

He locks the door behind him, another measure to ensure privacy.

Candles and torches flicker along the walls, casting a dim light throughout the room. One table is set with a tray of food one might feed to a lover with their fingers and a large pitcher of wine. The small table by his bedside holds a few vials of oil he didn’t have yesterday. Torveld’s eyes take in the details and then fall on Erasmus, lying in his bed.

The young man is an image of beauty. He lies in the First Night form, arms above his head and wrists and ankles crossed, making his body look long, lean, and open to any pleasure the prince wants to take. His hair shines in the dancing light and appears truly blonde against the dark sheets. The chiton he wears is almost sheer, a teasing preview of the body beneath, and reveals slim arms and soft thighs. His hips are hitched in a way that accentuates his body’s natural curves and makes the tunic even shorter.

Torveld can see the soft flush and the quickened rise and fall of Erasmus’s chest, evidence of his arousal. The thought of his slave waiting and wanting in his bed sends a bolt of desire through him. 

He crosses the room to the side of the bed and extends a hand to the young man. “Your First Night will end here, but we will start in the bath.” Erasmus smiles and soft fingers curl into his hand without hesitation.

The bath attached to his bedchamber is small, much smaller than the common one in the middle of the palace, but it flows with natural hot water from the springs outside. He is not an indulgent man and the private bath is the one luxury he truly allows himself. Well, that and the beautiful slave at his side.

“Undress me,” he says softly. Nimble fingers trail up his bare arms, a teasing touch, before finding the pin at his shoulder. Erasmus makes quick work of the pin and the material slips off his body in a whisper of fabric. Hazel eyes light with desire as they travel down the length of Torveld’s body, noticing his manhood already twitching in interest.

“I have thought of this all day,” Torveld says, and runs gentle fingers through soft curls, tucking them behind Erasmus’s ear. 

“I have thought of nothing else.” Erasmus flushes at his own overt flirtation and drops quickly to rid Torveld of his sandals.

“Your turn,” Torveld murmurs when the slave rises again. The young man goes to unpin his chiton, but Torveld brushes his fingers aside. “Allow me.”

He starts at the slim wrists wrapped in gold and trails his fingertips up thin arms and over sharp collarbones. He dodges over the pin and swoops down the thin chest and stomach, teasing touch making the young man gasp and twitch as he brushes over nipples and ticklish ribs through the fabric. His hands smooth over curved hips and back to cup rounded cheeks for a moment that makes Erasmus flush and sway slightly in his arms, then down to tease at the short hem of the tunic with wandering fingers.

“Torveld,” Erasmus whispers, desire thick in his voice. 

The older man smiles and finally lifts his hand to the pin. He has teased them both enough for the moment. The pale chiton falls away and reveals the expanse of milky skin Torveld has become familiar with over the last few nights. 

“You’re beautiful,” he declares. Erasmus jumps as he did the first time and flushes all the way down to his chest. The reaction only makes Torveld chuckle and press closer to the young man. He tips Erasmus’s head up and dips down to press a chaste kiss to his mouth.

“What I say is true,” he murmurs against soft lips. Erasmus’s hands come up to grip his shoulders as he captures the young man’s mouth in a passionate kiss. 

It is difficult to step back a moment later, but Torveld wants the night to continue past kissing beside the bath. 

“I know you have spent a long time in the bath today, but I would like for you to join me.” Erasmus’s smile is soft and he allows Torveld to usher him into the bath with a hand just above the swell of his backside. 

The bath is a large hole cut naturally into the stone by flowing water from before Bazal was built. The water is warm, steaming, and reaches Torveld’s waist. He crosses to the side lined with soaps and vials used for washing, uncorks a vial of purple oil, and pours a generous amount into the water. The smell of lavender blooms in the air and Torveld hopes the scent and the steam will help Erasmus’s muscles relax for the coming night. 

“Tell me of your day,” he says as he picks up soap. Erasmus plucks the soap from his fingers with a shy smile and works up a lather, blush evident on his features. Torveld grins and presses a kiss to his forehead, a sign of approval for the slave’s boldness. The young man tells Torveld of his day reading and his impression of his handler as he runs gentle hands over his skin.

“He talks a lot.” Torveld laughs at this as Erasmus cups warm water and drips it over his shoulders and neck, rinsing the soap away.

“Yes, he has served my brother for a long time.”

“He says he tried to serve you.”

“Never. He is fiercely devoted to the king. He is only teasing.” 

Erasmus finishes washing him in moments and Torveld seats himself on one of the low shelves cut naturally into the stone walls of the pool, water rising to lap at his ribs. He beckons Erasmus forward and the young man comes to stand between his spread legs.

“Closer,” Torveld says. He places his hands on Erasmus’s hips and guides the blonde until he straddles his lap, knees tucked on either side of his own spread thighs. He enjoys the warm blush that spreads across the younger man’s cheeks as he settles himself in Torveld’s lap. His hands come up to rest along thick shoulders, and that’s when Torveld notices.

“You are trembling,”

Erasmus ducks his chin to his chest, eyes shut tight and expression mortified. 

“This slave is nervous,” he says after a moment. 

“It is more than nerves. Why do you tremble?”

Erasmus chews his lip. He hesitates to answer but the prince has learned that patience will lead to honesty so he waits, circling fingertips over his hips.

“My body is not prepared for you.”

The statement confuses Torveld. He knows that, he ordered it so that he might prepare Erasmus himself, drawing out the pleasure and feeling the lithe body open for his spread fingers, one of his favorite moments of any lovemaking. Erasmus chews his lip and keeps his eyes low, fear tugging his mouth into a frown. It hits Torveld as sure as a training sword to the stomach and knocks the wind from him all the same. Erasmus has been taken without prep before, he knows the pain of it, and still he came for his First Night, sure of the pain that awaited him.

Torveld’s arms wrap around the slim waist and pull Erasmus’s shaking form into his chest. “Adrian did not prepare you because I desire to. I will not hurt you Erasmus,” he vows into the blonde curls beneath his cheek.

Erasmus pulls back and Torveld lets him go, worried he will make the slave feel trapped in his embrace if he does not. The young man dips into the lowest bow he can while seated on Torveld’s lap. His curls skim the water and his nose is mere inches from it. 

“I’m sorry. This slave has no place to question your orders.”

“Think nothing of it. You were scared.” Because Torveld wishes nothing more than to put this behind them and to disregard titles and rank, he tangles his fingers into thick curls, tilts Erasmus’s head up and pulls him into a gentle kiss.

Soft lips part and Torveld takes the invitation to deepen their embrace. Erasmus has a talented mouth. He teases Torveld with soft flicks and gentle nips, but allows the older man to control the kiss. It’s exciting to kiss him in a way that it usually isn’t with pliant, submissive slaves.

The hands that grip Torveld’s shoulders sweep down his chest, over sensitive nipples, and dip under the water at their waists. Fingers trail over his abs, making the muscles twitch beneath the skin, and down lower to rest on the top of his thighs, inches from his stirring erection. After a moment’s hesitation, fingertips brush along his burgeoning length, a teasing touch. 

Torveld breaks from their kiss with a quiet groan. Erasmus’s eyes watch his own hands under the water, exploring the length and girth of him with curious touches. Tan fingers wrap around white wrists, a stark contrast, and pry them away. An apology for some perceived wrong is evident on the tip of Erasmus’s tongue, but Torveld smiles and presses a kiss to the inside of each wet wrist.

“Your touch is always welcome, Erasmus, but tonight I wish to spill inside you.”

Erasmus flushes and squirms on his lap. Torveld chuckles. If the young man likes to hear the details, Torveld can only oblige. He leans forward to murmur directly in the younger man’s ear. 

“First, I wish to pleasure you, watch you come undone under my touch, then I will prepare you and feel you come undone again on my cock.”

“Twice?” His voice is a mix of hope and doubt. Torveld laughs.

“Initially. We have all night to learn each other’s pleasure. You are young and I am an ambitious man.” 

Erasmus flushes at the words and his fingers grip at Torveld’s arms. “Please, Torveld.” 

The prince smiles and indulges the light haired man’s plea. He starts at the neck, pressing sucking kisses along the slender throat that make the young man gasp. His fingers dip beneath the water and trail over sensitive ribs to his thighs, where he brushes them back and forth to tease along the crease. 

Erasmus’s arms wrap around his shoulders and the movement presses his erection forward against the prince’s stomach. He doesn’t thrust like most men would, instinctually seeking pleasure, and Torveld desires to take the young man out of his head and out of his training by overwhelming him with pleasure.

He dips his head and sucks hard on a peaked nipple. Erasmus jerks and moans, fingers gripping at his shoulder blades and Torveld delights in the sound and the feeling of the younger man just beginning to give over to pleasure. His hands move back to grip round cheeks and guide Erasmus to thrust against his stomach. Torveld’s fingers dig into the flesh and expose his entrance as he thrusts forward again and Erasmus whimpers his pleasure at the dual feeling of friction and vulnerability.

Torveld pulls back from the swollen nipple and admires the view before him. Erasmus is flushed and panting in his arms. His hips move without thought, guided by strong hands, and he moans with every thrust. It would be easy to allow Erasmus to seek his own pleasure and spill in the water and Torveld yearns to watch him do so, but tonight he wants to pleasure the young man directly.

He stops Erasmus’s mindless thrusts with a gentle grip on his hips. Honey eyes slit open in question and he smiles.

“I want to bring you to completion.” 

His brows come together in confusion and Torveld wants to laugh. He can practically hear Erasmus’s train of thought that he was the one to interrupt the momentum in the first place.

“You have a choice. My hands.” He grazes Erasmus’s length with his fingertips and the young man gasps, a sweet sound Torveld already craves. “Or my mouth?”

Erasmus’s eyes widen and his lips part in surprise. Undoubtedly, the slave expected a night of pleasuring his master and not of having his own pleasure seen to. Torveld has been told he is a generous lover and finds his own pleasure peaked when his bed partner is overcome with his touch. 

“I wish to please you,” Erasmus says after a moment. Torveld smiles at the deflection, certain the man has never been given a choice in bed, and cups his cheek.

“It would please me to hear what you desire.”

Erasmus shakes his head, but his eyes are trained on Torveld’s lips and that is answer enough. 

He tightens his grips on Erasmus’s hips and lifts the young man out of the water to sit on the ledge. Hazel eyes widen at the display of strength and Torveld sees his hands twitch out of the corner of his eye, a sign of his desire to touch the older man. He files that away for later; perhaps he will lift Erasmus and take him against a wall one day so the man can feel the full strength of his arms and his thrusts. 

Erasmus’s cock twitches in interest and his cheeks flush as Torveld settles between his spread legs. His erection is perfectly proportioned to his body, average sized and slim, and stands with a slight curve upwards. His chest is hairless save for a small smattering of light curls around his cock. He is hard and the pink tip is weeping his pleasure already. 

Torveld leans forward, bypasses the place Erasmus truly yearns for his mouth, and presses his lips against a long scar. 

“Beautiful,” he murmurs and kisses another one. Above him, Erasmus’s cheeks flame in embarrassment but a shy smile plays at the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you,” he says and fingertips brush over Torveld’s forehead. A smile splits his cheeks and he hums his approval against the tough skin beneath his lips. This is the first time Erasmus has accepted a compliment instead of deflecting it with a submissive phrase from his training.

He runs his hands up the outside of either thigh and wrap them around the young man to rest on curved cheeks. The movement wedges his elbows underneath Erasmus’s knees and pulls his legs up onto his arms, bringing his face closer to the young man’s lap. 

Torveld starts slow, littering each thigh with teasing kisses and nips. His teeth graze over the plump skin at the top of Erasmus’s thigh and his entire leg jerks in surprise. Erasmus moans and his fingers brush along Torveld’s scalp, raising goose bumps with the noise and the touch. Torveld chuckles and repeats the motion on the other thigh, pleased when the reaction is the same. 

“Torveld,” Erasmus pants.

“Shh, I know,” he mutters and turns his attention from teasing.

He leans forward and wraps his lips around Erasmus’s cock, flicking his tongue against the soft flesh. Erasmus moans and his entire body lurches forward to curl over Torveld as his mouth works. Fingers grip tight onto his shoulders and he wonders for a moment if he’ll have bruises the next day.

The taste of salt and something bitter explodes on his tongue as he sucks gently at the head and pushes forward to take more of the cock into his mouth. He can feel Erasmus shudder above him and moans spill from his lips, a beautiful litany of pleasure that makes Torveld’s own cock throb. Erasmus won’t last long and Torveld doubles his efforts, sucking harder and swirling his tongue around the tip in a way that makes Erasmus’s thighs twitch beside his head.

The young man’s hips try to thrust further into his mouth, but his broad shoulders keep the movement to a minimum. Erasmus is completely at the mercy of Torveld’s mouth. The thought makes him groan around the length in his mouth and Erasmus moans in response.

“Torveld, please,” he gasps. His thighs twitch in earnest against the prince’s ears and Torveld knows that he is close.

Torveld grips onto rounded cheeks and pulls Erasmus forward across the wet stone until he balances precariously on the ledge. His legs drape over broad shoulders and Torveld buries his face into the young man’s lap, swallowing down the length of his cock once, twice, before coming back up to suck on the tip alone, flicking his tongue the way the blonde likes. 

Erasmus cries out and comes, back arching in his pleasure. Salt explodes on Torveld’s tongue, thicker than before, and he swallows without thought. He works the slender cock through the waves of pleasure, sucking and lapping at the slit as Erasmus shakes apart above him. 

After a few moments, Erasmus quiets. Torveld pulls off with a soft popping noise and shifts up onto his knees to gather to young man into an embrace. Erasmus shudders and pants in the circle of his arms, breath warm against his neck and arms loose around his shoulders. His own cock throbs in his desire, hard and straining, but Torveld ignores it. He presses a kiss to light curls damp with sweat, content to wait until the younger man comes back to himself.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the final chapter! Thanks to anyone who has been with Torveld and Erasmus through this little journey to give Erasmus a detailed and happy ending. There may be one-shots added to this fic in the future, but overall the story is done. Hope you enjoy!

Erasmus floats. His head feels fuzzy and his limbs are warm and loose in the aftermath of his orgasm. He has seen oral sex before and even performed it himself a few times, but never did he think he would have a master willing to perform it on him. He’s heard of masters who see to their slave’s pleasure, delighting in making their slave come undone, but never dared to hope he would be claimed by such a master.

The next few moments are a blurr. Torveld guides him with gentle hands to stand on shaky legs and runs a fluffy cloth over both of them. He wants to protest that he should be the one drying Torveld, but the idea won’t fully form in his brain. He must say something because the prince chuckles, presses a kiss to his temple, and ushers him into the bedchamber. He collapses onto the bed in a tumble of limbs and nuzzles his face into one of the soft pillows, inhaling the familiar scent of Torveld. He feels warm and languid and basks in the novelty.

“Don’t sleep, Erasmus,” the voice cuts through the satiated haze of his mind. “I’m not nearly finished with you.”

He giggles—what an absurd thought that he could fall asleep when Torveld is still hard and wanting—and flips onto his back, hand extended toward the dark haired man watching him from the foot of the bed.

“Join me,” he says, and spreads his legs in an explicit invitation. Torveld laughs and climbs onto the bed, vial of oil in hand from the bedside table. He looms over the slender man and Erasmus is struck with how powerful his prince is as muscled arms and thick legs frame him. That seems to cut through the lethargy, making Erasmus thrum with anticipation and yearning again. He wants the prince to find pleasure in him and more importantly, he wants to see to that pleasure like the older man saw to his. 

Torveld kisses him, a dance of mouths pleasant and familiar to them both now. He presses his hands against Torveld’s strong chest, running fingers through the thin trail of hair to circle his nipples. He teases and pinches lightly for a moment, and warmth fills his belly when the man above him shudders and kisses him harder, lost in sensation. His hands travel lower, grazing over abdominal muscles and thin hips. He wraps one hand around the thick cock that brushes against his stomach with their movements and gives it a firm stroke.

Torveld breaks the kiss and drops his head to Erasmus’s shoulder to groan. His hips flex and push his cock through the circle of Erasmus’s fingers, a crude pantomime of the act Erasmus desires.

The younger man smiles and presses a kiss to his temple. 

“Would you like me to please you this way?” He squeezes a little and giggles at the grunt from his prince. He’s being unfair. He knows exactly how Torveld wants to release tonight, but he’s feeling bold and likes the sensation of Torveld thrusting into his hand without thought. 

Torveld pushes himself up and Erasmus gives him his best, innocent smile. 

“I am not a young man anymore, Erasmus. I will not be able to perform again quickly.”

“We have all night to learn the pleasure of each other’s bodies,” he teases. The prince laughs and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Yes, but I wish to spill inside you first.” A jolt of desire warms Erasmus’s gut and sends a shudder down his spine. He’s not sure what shows on his face, but Torveld smiles at the expression and kisses him again.

“Turn over. It’ll be easier on your knees.”

He flips onto his belly without hesitation and pulls his knees beneath him to expose the most intimate place in his body to Torveld. He keeps his shoulders pressed to the bed, wrapping arms around a pillow and nuzzling his face into it. 

“Don’t sleep,” Torveld says with a chuckle and Erasmus giggles, heady and eager.

There is rustling behind him and the mattress dips with Torveld’s movements, then the sound of a cork being pulled from a vial. Erasmus closes his eyes and breaths in deeply. It’s nerve-wracking to have Torveld at his back, not because of his past, but because of the anticipation of being taken on his First Night. He imagined this moment often throughout his training, always with a tan Akielon prince instead of his beloved Patran. 

A fingertip slick with oil presses to the entrance of his body and Erasmus jerks in his surprise. Torveld runs a warm hand up the back of his thigh, stroking him like a nervous horse. Erasmus turns his mind to that hand, tracking the path of it as it runs up and down the back of his thigh and buttocks. He times his breathing with every pass like the first night he met Torveld.

“Well done, Erasmus,” Torveld says, smile evident in his voice.

The first finger presses inside of him, long and strange, but not unpleasant. Torveld works the one finger in and out of his body for a few moments, spreading oil and allowing the young man to adjust to the feeling. A second finger joins the first against his hole and Erasmus breathes in as the pair breach him. It doesn’t hurt exactly but it is uncomfortable. His body fights the stretch, trying to push the foreign objects out, but Torveld is persistent and pushes his fingers in to the knuckle.

“Breathe,” he says and Erasmus inhales deeply. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.

The fingers rest inside him for a moment as he breathes. His muscles loosen and unlock, similar to during a massage, and Torveld can move his fingers again. They move slowly, massaging along his inner walls and spreading slightly to stretch him.   
Erasmus shifts on his knees, pushing his hips back more and arching his back. A soft groan sounds behind him and the noise makes his cheeks warm in embarrassment. Torveld presses a gentle kiss to his flank, inches from where his fingers piston in and out.

“Gorgeous,” he mutters and Erasmus flushes again.

He adds a third finger. Erasmus’s body doesn’t try and reject it like before. He feels full and eager and he moves his hips back to meet the thrust of Torveld’s fingers. 

“I need to be inside you.”

“Yes, please, yes,” he babbles, nuzzling his face into the pillow. Desire itches his skin. He has wanted Torveld for so long, he cannot wait another moment.

The fingers leave his body and Erasmus whimpers at the sudden feeling of emptiness. Then, the spongy head of a cock rests against his stretched hole, teasing up and down the split of his cheeks. A warm hand settles onto his lower back.

“Alright?” Torveld asks. Erasmus is stunned. He is out of his mind with eagerness and anticipation, wishing only to push his hips backwards and take his prince’s length into his body. Torveld hasn’t come yet and he still has half a mind to pause for Erasmus’s well-being. His control is unbelievable to the young man.

A longing warms Erasmus chest and he can think of only one thing to make his First Night better. Torveld wanted to hear his thoughts and desires and while Erasmus is still uncomfortable asking anything of his prince, he can show him.

“Wait,” he says softly. The hand on his lower back twitches, a sign of the prince’s confusion, but the older man does as bid. Erasmus turns onto his back, pulling a pillow from the top of the bed and shoving it under his own hips. He spreads his legs and pulls Torveld forward with shaking fingers. 

“Like this, please.” He can feel his face heat with his forwardness, but the prince only smiles and presses his lips to each cheek.

“As you wish,” he says. He guides Erasmus’s legs around his hips and lines up the head of his cock with an oil-slick hand. 

There is a moment of pressure, Torveld’s cock nudging against Erasmus’s unyielding body, and then his muscles give way and Torveld presses inside. His cock feels large, so much wider than his fingers, and Erasmus has to shut his eyes and breathe deeply as the prince pushes forward. He moves slowly, allowing Erasmus to adjust inch by inch, but without pause, insistent in the thrust of his hips.

The tops of Torveld’s thighs press against the back of the blonde’s when he is fully sheathed in the younger man. Erasmus shivers at the feeling of full, almost too full, and his body clenches around the thick cock within him, making both men groan. He pants and tries to will his body into relaxing further instead of tensing around the girth inside him. War-hardened fingers cup his cheek and Erasmus opens hazel eyes to look at the man above him.

“You’re beautiful.” The conviction in Torveld’s voice makes him blush hard and he has to look away from the emotion swimming in the older man’s eyes. The feeling of being full mixed with Torveld’s kind words is overwhelming, a dual pleasure that makes his breath quicken. He has imagined this moment so often, but never did he imagine it would feel like this.

“I have never felt…“

“Never,“ Erasmus agrees and the prince grins. He leans up, tilting Erasmus’s hips in a way that drives him deeper and makes the young man moan, and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Torveld starts with slow, short thrusts, barely pulling back and nudging his hips forward to give Erasmus’s body more time to adapt to the movement. It’s intense. Erasmus feels warm and stretched and the cock inside of him rubs against his inner walls with every pass. He wants more, more of Torveld kissing along his collarbone, more of Torveld’s hands on his chest and hips, and more of Torveld’s cock moving inside of him. He wraps his arms around Torveld’s shoulders and tightens his legs around thrusting hips, pulling the prince forward without consciously meaning to.

It pushes Torveld deeper than before and they both groan at the sensation. 

Torveld moves faster. His hips pull back until only the tip is in and he drives forward to fully sheath himself inside Erasmus’s tight hole. He angles his hips a few different ways and brushes against something inside the younger man that makes him cry out and arch in pleasure. His fingers grip hard at strong shoulder blades and Torveld grins above him, pleased at his reaction.

“Found it,” he says and thrusts his hips again. White-hot pleasure burns inside Erasmus, making him moan and shudder and scramble for purchase with legs and arms. He has seen men react to thrusts before, but he always assumed it was for show for their partner. Never has he felt a pleasure like this. He grips Torveld tighter and pulls him closer until he can lean up and press their lips together.

Their mouths move and their hips move, seeking pleasure. Erasmus rolls his hips up to meet every thrust of Torveld’s, whimpering and moaning into the prince’s mouth. He is lost to sensation, aware only of the pleasure of his body and the man above him. Torveld groans and thrusts with abandon, driving deeper and faster than before, practically pounding Erasmus into the mattress below. 

The sensation is too much. Erasmus is reduced to nothing but moans, shudders, and moving hips. He is hot all over and his spine tingles with his impending release. Close, so close. Torveld is too; Erasmus can feel it in the desperation of his kisses and the erratic thrusting of his hips.

Erasmus’s cock rubs against Torveld’s stomach with their movements and the friction makes the young man cry out, sensitive from the bath. Calloused fingers grip his cock and stroke and that is all it takes to tip Erasmus over the line of close to completion, pleasure searing hot up his spine. He shudders and comes, splashing both of their stomachs with evidence of his pleasure and moaning Torveld’s name.

Torveld groans above him and finds his own release in one, two thrusts. His hips snap forward, tight against Erasmus’s backside and Erasmus is aware only of warmth spreading deep within his body and fingers pressing bruises into his hips. 

The prince collapses on top of him, heavy with release, and nuzzles his face into the blonde’s neck. They lay together, unmoving, for long moments, both breathing heavy and basking in the hazy warmth of orgasm. Erasmus runs gentle fingers up and down the expanse of Torveld’s back and shoulders.

Torveld pushes himself up, but doesn’t go far. He balances on one hand and uses the other and sweep blonde curls off of a damp forehead. 

“How do you feel?” he asks, voice gravel with his release. 

“Wonderful.” Erasmus giggles when a light pink spreads across Torveld’s cheeks.

“I meant here.” Fingers press gently against his rim where their bodies still connect. Erasmus flinches and gasps as a dull ache shoots through his lower back and backside.

“Sore,” he says honestly. He can see the apology on Torveld’s tongue and presses a quick kiss to his mouth to hush him. “I enjoy your enthusiasm. My First Night was better than anything I ever dreamed of in Akelios.”

The older man smiles and presses a kiss to his cheek. He shifts his hips back and Erasmus hisses at the twinge of discomfort when the soft cock pulls from his body. Torveld shifts to lay behind him and wraps him in strong arms. 

“I should—“ Erasmus says, thinking of a cloth and water to attend to the mess.

“Rest. You’ll need your strength for when I take you again tonight.” Erasmus giggles and presses himself more fully into the curve of Torveld’s body.

“I look forward to it, Torveld.” Torveld hums and lays gentle kisses along his neck and shoulders.

_Be brave and something good might come of it._ The blonde prince of Vere had said to the slave. As strong fingers stroke along his arms and chest, Erasmus thinks that neither one of them had truly known the extent of the good that might come.


End file.
